The Great Northern Maple Syrup Adventure Part Two: Canada
by nutmeg9cat
Summary: Fraser and Ray V have followed the maple syrup from a stack of pancakes in Chicago to a mobster's warehouse on a city wharf. After being accidentally shanghaied, they are on a barge on its way to Canada across the Great Lakes. Meanwhile, in Chicago, Thatcher, Diefenbaker and the 27th precinct are trying to follow the clues to find the missing men.
1. Chapter 1

**THE GREAT NORTHERN MAPLE SYRUP ADVENTURE**

**PART TWO: CANADA**

RECAP: Fraser and Ray have followed the maple syrup in Chicago to Brannigan's Wharf and mobster Frank "The Toothpick" Nardo's warehouse. They are inadvertently shanghaied in a barge containing illegal weapons and drugs for parts unknown. Meanwhile, in Chicago, Inspector Thatcher, Diefenbaker and the 27th Precinct try to find them by following the few clues left behind ...

**CHAPTER ONE**

"How does Fraser sleep with that racket?" Huey complained, sipping his cold cup of coffee.

"It's not that bad," Guardino said, "you should have heard my ex-wife."

Diefenbaker was sacked out on the back seat. The three of them had been watching the pier, warehouse and bar on Brannigan's Wharf for the past few hours. Apart from the hustle and bustle of the business day, they had seen nothing unusual. The bar was doing a good business as the workers in the area knocked off their shifts. The warehouse at the end, the one that Dief had singled out, had been relatively quiet, without the comings and goings of the other businesses on the pier.

Elaine had checked in with them a couple of times, staying at the station long after her shift had ended. She had returned the Riviera to the Vecchio home. Ray had not checked in with his family in over twenty four hours, an unusual occurrence for him. His sisters were worried, but hadn't yet said anything to their mother, who was away in Florida visiting her sister. Turnbull had confirmed that there was still no word from Fraser. Elaine had found a receipt from a sandwich shop on Flint Street in the Riv, and was checking it out. Meanwhile, the Lieutenant had prioritized the case. Every law enforcement agency in the greater Chicago area had a BOLO from the 2-7 for the two missing cops, including the Feds.

"I gotta go," Guardino said, opening the door. Dief sat up abruptly and followed him out. Man and wolf used a space between two containers, sheltered from the wind, to take care of business. As he was zipping up, Guardino heard Dief's quiet woof.

"What is it, boy?" He peered around the corner. There were lights approaching across the water. They hurried back to the car. Huey was watching through the small binoculars he had retrieved from Vecchio's car.

"It's a boat," he said, stating the obvious.

"What kind of boat?"

"Can't tell yet," he replied. "But, it's coming our way." They watched as the lights got closer. Then, the warehouse at the end of the pier came to life. Exterior lights and spotlights came on, illuminating the approach from the water. Lights blazed on inside. This was the most activity that they had seen for this warehouse since they started the surveillance. As they watched, fascinated, a tugboat delicately maneuvered a barge loaded with cargo. Men scurried around the pier as the barge approached. To their surprise, the barge kept moving past the pier, ending up _under_ the warehouse, where it was completely shielded from their view.

"Huh," Guardino said. "That's weird."

"Yeah," Huey agreed.

Dief yipped.

They continued to watch for a couple hours. Guardino and Dief took another walk, not as close as before, and returned.

"I think they're unloading the cargo from underneath," he told Huey. "I could hear the sound of machinery, maybe a winch. Guys shouting back and forth. But, you can't see any of the stuff that they're unloading. It's completely hidden." He frowned. "That's hinky."

"Very suspicious," he agreed. They called it in. It wasn't anywhere near enough for a warrant, but it confirmed in their own minds that they were watching the right place.

Eventually, the warehouse quieted down. Most of the lights went off . Men exited the building in twos and threes. A few walked in the direction of the parking lots. But, most went into the Redeye Bar.

An hour later, Huey's cell phone rang. He answered it.

"Reg?" A pause. "Uh-huh. ... OK ... I'm coming in."

Guardino looked a question at him. "He got something?"

"Yeah." As he opened the door, he made a move to follow him. "Stay here, Louis."

"Jack, it's a rough –"

"Reg won't talk to me unless I'm alone," he said. "Keep an eye out. If I'm not back in half an hour, you and the wolf come get me."

Guardino reluctantly agreed. He took the binoculars, training them on the warehouse first, then on Huey as he made his way to the bar. When he disappeared inside, he switched back to the warehouse, but looked over at the bar from time to time. He felt hot breath on his cheek and a wet tongue as Diefenbaker gave him a lick.

He jerked his head. "C'mon, keep me company up here, Poochie."

Dief moved into the driver's seat and stared alertly at the warehouse.

Huey entered the Redeye. It was smoky, noisy and crowded. He managed to squeeze in at the bar. He got the bartender's attention and ordered a beer. As he sipped it, he looked around. The crowd was mostly made up of bikers and dockworkers, and their women, sitting separately in various small groups, but in apparent peaceful co-existence. The juke was loud. There were a couple of pool tables in the back, near the restrooms. He spotted Reg at one of the tables with a cue in his hand. Their eyes met, but they gave no sign of recognition. He finished his beer and made his way to the mens room. He checked the stalls and saw they were unoccupied, before approaching a urinal. A minute later, Reg joined him at the next urinal, plus one.

"What have you got?"

"This is big, Jack. Worth more than a twenty."

"We'll see," he replied. "If it's as good as you think it is, I'll treat you right. You know that."

"OK." He unzipped and began urinating. "I been playing pool, see. Two guys come in a little while ago and start playing at the other table. Older guy named Sonny Barone, I used to know from Joliet. The younger one, dude named Bobby, I ain't never seen before. He was pretty wasted." He paused. "So, Bobby's bragging on himself to one of the waitresses, the cute one named Tina. Something about being a made man now. You know, trying to pick her up."

"Yeah, that always works with the ladies," Jack said, drily.

Reg looked at him strangely, then continued, "Sonny heard him and sent the girl packing. I don't know what he said to her but she looked pretty scared. Then, he grabbed Bobby and shoved him up against the wall. Told him to shut the f— up." He finished and zipped up. "Bobby kept arguing with him, so Sonny grabs him around the neck. He tells him 'if you don't shut up_ right now_, you'll end up in the same place as those two stiffs.'" He smiled at Huey. "Bobby shut up." He laughed. "I don't know if he wised up, or he couldn't talk after that choke hold."

Huey looked skeptical. "I can't believe they said that in front of you."

He grinned. "You'd be proud of me, Jack. I dropped the chalk on purpose, and was down, under my table, when Sonny was roughing up Bobby. He was talking low, but I got good ears. He never saw how close I was."

"And, you're sure that's what he said?"

"That's the straight shit, Jack. I swear," he said, earnestly.

"Who does Sonny work for?"

He shrugged. "Back when he was doing time at Joliet, he was working for the Toothpick. Dunno if he still does. But, y'know, the Pick's got a lot going down at the waterfront."

"Describe them."

Reg did. Huey peered into his face, then satisfied, pulled out his wallet. He handed him a hundred dollar bill.

"Thanks, man," he said, happily. He stuffed the bill in his pocket.

"Keep an eye out, OK?"

"Sure, sure," he said. He headed to the door.

"Reg?" Jack called. "Watch yourself."

Reg nodded and left. Jack went to the sink and leaned heavily on it. After a few minutes, he ran the water and washed his hands. When he left the bathroom, he ordered another beer and maneuvered over to the pool room with it. He spotted Reg at the one table. At the other table, he saw two men fitting Sonny and Bobby's descriptions. Bobby was playing badly, and kept rubbing his Adam's apple. Sonny shot a casual glance at Jack, but then went back to the game. He watched the play for a while, finished his beer, and left the Redeye.

When he got back to the car, he saw Dief sitting in the driver seat. He motioned for Guardino to join him outside the vehicle.

"I was just about to come looking for you," he said, worriedly. "You OK? You look funny."

Huey shook his head.

Alarmed, Guardino grabbed his arm. "What did Reg say?"

Huey told him. Louis looked as sick as he felt. "I didn't want to say anything in front of him," he said, pointing at the car behind Guardino.

Diefenbaker was staring out at them. As they watched, he flung his head back and howled. The sound was muffled but still sent a chill down Huey's back.

"You forgot, Jack," he said solemnly, "he can read your lips."


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

"Gimme your knife," Ray said, holding out a hand.

Fraser shifted on his stack of canned peaches and reached into his boot. He handed the knife, handle end to Ray, without comment. He was too tired, too sore, too grimy, and too long in close quarters with the other man to give a darn what he wanted it for.

Ray tested the knife edge with his thumb. "It's dull," he complained.

"We've been using it to open cans," Fraser replied, barely keeping a note of irritation out of his voice. "I didn't bring a sharpening stone."

Ray set the knife point on a piece of framing on his side of the crate and started scratching. He soon made a diagonal slash about three inches long. He blew the sawdust out of the gouge, rubbed it with a finger, then started on a second slash. As he was working on the third, he said, over his shoulder, "I thought we should mark how many days we've been in here. Y'know, for when they find our mummified remains."

"In this climate, we're not likely to mummify. Rather, we'd end up –" he stopped at the look Ray shot him.

Ray finished. Three slashes for the three dawns spent onboard. He handed the knife back. Fraser crouched beside the diminishing cartons of peaches that comprised his seat. He extracted a can and used the knife to cut open the lid. He speared a peach half and held it out to Ray. "Breakfast?"

He shuddered and shook his head. "If we ever get out of here, I swear, I will _never _eat another peach in my life." He grabbed the empty can they kept in the corner and climbed out of the crate, grabbing on to Fraser's shoulder to steady himself.

Fraser took a bite of fruit, and washed it down with a swig of the liquid in the can. He didn't know what Ray's problem was. Once, on the tundra, he had survived for three weeks on nothing but mice and melted snow. He'd have been happy then to have cases of canned peaches in heavy syrup at hand. And that nasal quality in Ray's voice. It was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Strange, he had never noticed it before.

On the port side of the barge, Ray stood in the gloom and 'used the can.' The joke he had coined three days back had long since worn thin. A lot of things had worn thin after three days in a crate with Fraser, the world's most irritating person. Ray was on the verge of moving out. One more day of this, and he was getting his own crate.

It was mostly dark on this side of the barge with the rising sun behind him. He finished, zipped up and tossed the contents over the side, pleased with the lack of wind. One careless toss yesterday had added another layer of fragrance to his already redolent overcoat. And, earned him a lecture on how to tell which way the wind was blowing from Mr. Know-It-All.

He scratched the three day growth on his face. He was grateful that there was no mirror around. Ray prided himself on his personal grooming. But, out here, with no water to drink, much less wash with, even Fraser was beginning to show signs of wear and tear. Though, to his irritation, the five o'clock shadow, tousled hair, and rumpled clothes gave the Mountie a jaunty, devil-may-care appearance that women would probably swoon over. They were like characters in an old movie he had seen years ago on late night TV. Fraser was Dorian Gray; Ray was the picture. It was yet another thing to add to the ever-expanding list of the annoying qualities of Benton Fraser, RCMP.

As the sun rose, the gloom gradually lifted. Ray blinked, then rubbed his eyes. He peered at the horizon, then crouching below the tug's sight level, made his way back to home crate. "Fraser," he called down from the top. "Get out here."

Still clutching the open can of peaches, Fraser rose slowly and peered over the edge before standing upright. The sky to the east still held a rosy glow. The storm had abated several hours ago, leaving them to cruise calmly and steadily through the night. Exhausted by the storm, both men had slept, not bothering to take shifts. The crew of the tug could not get on the barge without it stopping, an occurrence which would have brought them (hopefully) to full alertness despite their fatigue. Fraser took a deep breath of the cold morning air to clear away the fug of the confined space. He climbed out and joined Ray, who crouched on the starboard side.

"What is that?" he said, pointing to the northeast.

"That's Canada, Ray. Ontario, to be more precise."

Ray grinned. "End of the line?"

"I would imagine we're getting close," he replied. "But, that presents a new set of dangers. Why are you smiling?"

"We're not spending another night in the crate!" He gestured toward the open can of peaches. Fraser held it out to him and Ray took a piece of fruit. They finished breakfast as the sun rose in a gloriously blue sky. Trading the spyglass back and forth, they watched the pilot, alone at the controls of the tug, as he steered toward the coastline. As the land came closer, Ray expected to see some kind of civilization, if only a dock or marina or other debarkation point. There was nothing. Puzzled, he asked Fraser about it.

"It's not surprising, Ray. Canada has the longest coastline in the world. And, with a population density of only 3.3 people per square mile, there are many areas in the country that are largely uninhabited."

"I thought that was just up north where you came from."

"Well, that's even more sparse, of course," he said, then added, "though the population there is growing. At last census, the size of Tuktoyaktuk had nearly doubled since I lived there."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"918."

"Thousand?" he echoed. "That's a lot bigger than I thought."

"No, 918." At his disbelieving stare, Fraser repeated, "9-1-8 total."

Ray turned and gaped at him. "You're kidding me, right?"

"No, Ray, since the pipeline was built in the seventies, there was a population boom. We had less than 400 residents when I lived there."

"Boom? You call that a boom?"

"Yes, Ray. You double the population, that's a boom."

"Fraser," he said, slowly, "my high school graduating class was 1500."

"Oh."

"You think we're gonna switch barges again?"

"I don't know," Fraser said. "But, I doubt it."

Ray looked through the spyglass again. His good mood was beginning to dissipate as it was clear there was no wharf in sight. He sighed. "I thought we'd at least be stopping for gas by now."

Fraser shook his head. "See those tanks along the sides of the deck?" Ray followed his pointing finger. "This boat is rigged for long-range cruising. It carries extra diesel fuel. I expect they flip a switch in the pilothouse when the regular tank is running low."

"Oh," he said, disappointed. Just then, two men entered the wheelhouse from belowdecks. One of them relieved the captain, who yawned, stretched, then disappeared. Ray imagined him tumbling into a warm, soft bed with fluffy pillows. He watched as the newcomers sipped from large mugs. He could almost smell the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. He sighed and helped himself to another peach.

The morning wore on. After a while, their destination became apparent. The mouth of a river loomed and the tug was making a beeline for it. The wheelhouse became crowded as all six of the crew now filled it. Then, men began to move around the deck, performing the myriad tasks that a boat required. Over the last two days, they had watched the crew as they went about their business, and gradually had been able to affix names to faces. The pilot/captain was Jean. He was a good-looking man, tall, dark-haired, in his mid-30s, with an air of authority about him. His relief pilot was Luc, an older guy with a gray beard; Jacques was the tall, skinny one; Michel was short and always eating; Pierre was blond and the youngest, and Guy, the big man with the belly, was the class clown, always laughing or joking with the others. By ten, the tug and barge had entered the river and left the big water behind them. Ray was relieved. All that open water made him nervous.

"Do you know where we are?"

Fraser rubbed his chin, frowning at the stubble he encountered. "Not exactly. There are a plethora of rivers and inlets that drain into the Lake they call Huron." He paused in thought. "Well, this part of the Lake is called Georgian Bay, to be more accurate. If I had to guess - and mind you, it _would_ be a guess, Ray - I would say we've just entered the French River. "

"I'll take your guess over somebody else's certainty any day," he muttered, squinting through the glass.

Surprised, Fraser said, "Thanks."

"You ever been here before?"

"Georgian Bay? No." He paused, thinking that this was, in fact, his first time in Ontario, then went on. "In the heyday of the steamships, this was a major trade route. Now, not so much." He gestured at the tugboat. "Which is, no doubt, why our friends are using it." He looked back at the big water they were leaving behind. In this entire journey, they had seen only one fishing boat, and that, at a great distance. "I imagine it's very different in summer." He gestured with a thumb to the west. "Especially in the Thirty Thousand Islands."

"Like the salad dressing."

"That's the Thousand Islands, Ray."

"A thousand, thirty thousand. What's the diff?"

"About twenty nine thousand islands," Fraser said, absently.

Ray silently counted to ten, before asking, "French River? Are we in Quebec now?"

"No, still Ontario."

Ray took a deep breath. The smell was different than the open water of the last three days. He sniffed again. It smelled ... green. While the land was snow-covered, pine trees were thickly clustered along the shoreline. The river was wide. Too wide to swim across, even on a summer day. Which it most definitely was not. Besides, there was nowhere to swim to.

Fraser touched his arm, pointed, and handed him the spyglass.

Ray squinted through it, then grinned. "My first moose." He watched as the animal waded through the frigid waters at the edge of the river. It dipped its head, grazing on some kind of aquatic vegetation. Ray watched it for awhile, laughing out loud as it came up with a tangle of weeds in its rack. Through the spyglass, it looked deceptively close and seemed to be looking right at him, its expression grumpy. "Hey, Bullwinkle," he said, softly. "Whatsa matta U?"

For the next two hours, they cruised the river. It was cold, of course, but sunny with no wind. It felt positively balmy to Ray after three days on the big Lake, especially in the storm. Despite the season, he saw cormorants, osprey, blue herons, and an owl. Fraser pointed out a beaver dam on one of the creeks that drained into the river.

Ray was quiet for a while, admiring the passing scenery. "It's beautiful out here," he murmured. "In a kinda ... rough ... way." His brow furrowed in thought. "You know what I mean?"

"I do. This was a favorite subject of the Group of Seven." At Ray's quizzical look, he explained, "Landscape painters of the '20s and '30s." Inwardly, Fraser was pleased at Ray's appreciation of the natural beauty of his country. A city boy born and bred, he generally considered nature something to be avoided at all costs. Still, when they were lost in the Canadian wilderness last summer, Ray had more than risen to the occasion. As they had made their way down river on a raft he had built with his own hands, he expressed a desire to come back one day. Fraser smiled ruefully. Yet another example of why one should be careful of what one wished for.

Ray folded his arms on the top of a crate and rested his chin on it. He looked pensively at his friend, "Where are we going, Benny?"

"I'd say ... an anchorage deep enough to accommodate the tug and secluded enough to conceal the criminal activity."

He snorted. "This isn't secluded enough?"

Fraser smiled. "It also needs to be near a road. There aren't any along the river."

"What about an airstrip? Or a seaplane?" Before Fraser could respond, Ray answered his own question. "Because, the size and weight of the cargo would be too much for a small plane."

"Yes."

He looked troubled. "This is no fly-by-night operation, Benny. There's a lot of money and a lot of planning at work."

"Indeed, Ray. I suspect this has been going on for some time, undetected by the authorities of either of our countries."

"I wish we could call it in," he said, gritting his teeth in frustration. "And call home. I wonder if Frannie and Maria have told Ma." Ray knew his family would be worried sick. He shook his head briskly, refusing to think about his mother's distress at his unexplained absence, hoping that his sisters had chosen to keep her in the dark, for now. Instead, he turned to Fraser, "What do you think the Dragon Lady's gonna do when you get back?"

Fraser actually shuddered. "I'm trying _not _to think about that, Ray." He let out a breath, and said, as if trying to convince himself, "That's not important. What _is _important is what will happen when we reach our terminus."

Ray looked alarmed.

He said, quickly, "By 'terminus,' I meant our destination."

"Why didn't you just say so," he muttered. "I've been thinking about that, too." He sighed. "Too bad there's no ammo for those assault rifles. Then, at least, we'd both be armed. What good is having Sergeant York on your team if all he can do is throw cans?"

"You could give me your gun," Fraser said, mildly.

"No. I couldn't," he said, with finality. He blew out a noisy breath. "We need a plan." For the next hour, they discussed, discarded, discoursed, debated, and deliberated. They both knew, though, that they'd be improvising when the time came. Still, Ray felt better when an hour later, the river opened out on a lake. Not a Great Lake, to be sure, but nothing to sneeze at. Their heading changed to due north as they sailed across it to the far shore.

The coastline here was rugged and irregular. Granite fingers, bedrock exposed by glaciers long ago, jutted out into the water. As they cruised around yet another headland, Ray spied a natural cove formed by the confluence of two rock outcroppings. It couldn't be seen except from this vantage point. As they sailed into it, he saw it was a deep cut. In the distance, he could just make out a long wooden dock on pilings. Beyond that, on land, there were a couple of outbuildings. Beyond them, tree-covered hills. It was a perfect smugglers cove, right out of a pirate story. If there were pirates in Canada.

"Secluded anchorage, I presume?" he said, and without waiting for a response, added, "This is it, Benny." He murmured, "I wish my cell phone wasn't broken."

Fraser shook his head. He pointed at the empty sky. "It wouldn't matter. No cell phone towers; no telephone wires."

They shared the spyglass. The long dock ended at a clearing. There was a fuel tank under a roof enclosure, but otherwise open-air structure at the end of the dock. Beyond that, a small shed. And a log cabin, with a wide front porch that looked out at the dock. A rough road ran between the cabin and the shed. A large cargo truck was parked there, back end facing the water. The road wound around behind the cabin before disappearing into the woods. In the middle of the dock, a portable crane sat idly on tractor treads. The setup was clear. The barge would be unloaded using the crane. The cargo would then be loaded on to the truck. And the truck driven away to parts unknown.

Fraser pointed to the chimney of the cabin. Smoke drifted out. Ray's heart sank. He had hoped that there would be no welcoming party to meet the boat. Fraser shared his dismay. Six men were bad enough. But, they had to accept that there was at least one more adversary to contend with. "We'd better get in position," he said. Ray snorted derisively at that. Position, right. After much discussion, they had abandoned home crate and sealed it up tight. Hiding there would restrict their flexibility. In a firefight, it would be a death trap. Not that there were any perfect places to conceal themselves on the barge. Especially, since they could not anticipate what would happen next. All they could do was crouch behind crates, staying out of the sight line of the tugboat as it maneuvered the barge into dock.

The next half hour was tense as the crew disengaged the tow cable and the pilot expertly pushed, bumped and nudged the barge toward the dock. Their worst nightmare, that crew from the tug would board the barge in the docking process, didn't happen. Instead, a man had emerged from the cabin in response to a toot from the tug's horn. He waved casually, then drank from a bottle of beer as he idly watched the docking maneuvers, only springing into action to use a boathook and tie up the barge to the dock. He shouted instructions in French, the crew responded in kind, and the boat pulled in on the opposite side of the pier. The tug was moored in similar fashion, then the pilot shut down the engine. The sudden silence was broken by the lively voices of seven men, talking in rapid guttural French.

Fraser and Ray, staying low, scooted to the farthest side of the barge. The men did things to secure the barge and boat in their moorings amid the cacophony of voices. Fraser strained to make out the threads of various conversations. The new man and the pilot embraced in a fierce bear hug, pounding each other on the back.

"What are they saying?"

Fraser translated. "Francois, the name of the man from the cabin, is complaining they are late for dinner. Jean - the captain of the boat and, by the way, Francois' cousin on his mother's side, told him about the storm. Francois has made his grandmother's recipe for venison stew with lardons. With," he added, "her secret ingredient."

At that Ray's mouth began to water uncontrollably. "What's a _lardon_?"

"Bacon that has been diced, blanched and fried."

Ray swallowed and wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth. "What's the secret ingredient?"

"I don't know, Ray," he said, in the tone of one stating the obvious. "It's a secret." He cocked his head. "Now, they're deciding whether to unload the barge or eat first."

Ray crossed his fingers, "Eat first, eat first, eat first," he said, repeatedly, in his own version of a mantra. The discussion grew animated, but was abruptly halted when Jean yelled "Arrete!" He pointed at three of his men and issued an order. They laughed, made remarks to the others, and started walking down the dock toward the cabin. The remaining crew - Guy and Michel -watched, looking envious. Guy, the big man, shouted after them and made some sort of gesture that Ray presumed was French and knew was crude. There were catcalls back from the departing men, and another round of laughter. Francois, the cook, also stayed behind as Jean followed the three men off the dock.

"Now what?" Ray asked.

"Those four will have dinner first, while these three unload. Then, they will be relieved, and will have their dinner. Francois has already eaten." He pointed at the big man. " Guy told the others to save him some stew, or ... or else."

"Or else what?"

"I'd rather not say," he replied, his face reddening. "Francois is the truck driver. Ray, he's been here all day waiting for the tug to arrive. Alone."

Ray watched as the three men on the dock turned to their work. Francois climbed into the seat on the crane, buckled a safety harness, and cranked the engine. It started right up, belching diesel exhaust. Guy and Michel, sorted the rigging on the crane and boom, then Guy gave a thumbs up to the operator. Hand signals were necessary as the noisy engine made talking impossible.

Ray leaned close and spoke directly in Fraser's ear, "This is our chance, Benny."

They took up positions, such as they were. The unloading team went to work. Francois operating the crane, Michel on the dock handling the hoist that dangled from the boom, and Guy stepping down on to the barge. He approached a large crate on the dockside, then held his hands up; Michel tossed him the hoist. Guy set the hoist around the crate, then gave a broad two thumbs up gesture. Francois expertly manipulated the controls of the crane and the hoist lifted the crate high. All three looked up at it as Francois swung the boom slowly over to the dock.

Fraser shot up like a jack-in-the-box, pulled back his arm, and let fly a can of peaches in heavy syrup. It hit a crate and dropped to the deck, where it rolled to a stop at Guy's feet. He bent, picked up the can, then looked up at the sky in puzzlement. Then, Fraser was there. He dropped Guy with a right cross and a left hook. Ray looked up at the crane crew. They were still busy with the suspended crate, and hadn't seen the scuffle. He heaved a sigh of relief.

Fraser grabbed the unconscious man under the arms, and dragged him back to their hiding spot. Using rope they had cut for this purpose, he trussed Guy up like a steer at a rodeo. He gagged him with a strip of red flannel he had cut from his longjohns. Ray kept an eye on Francois and Michel. As Francois lowered the crate to the dock, Michel moved forward and muscled the hoist off. He walked it back to the barge as Francois swung the crane over in tandem with his movements. He looked for Guy, and called his name a couple of times. He looked back at Francois, who shrugged. "Guy!? Merde!" he said. Ray couldn't hear him, but he could read his lips. He called again, then obviously pissed off at his shipmate, jumped down into the barge.

Michel stomped over to the spot where he had last seen Guy. There was nothing to see. He took a few more steps, then looked down. There was a dented can of peaches lying on the deck. He bent to pick it up. That was Ray's cue. From his spot behind a crate, he grabbed Michel's ankles, yanking his feet out from under him. He fell heavily, his chin meeting the deck with an audible thump that made Ray wince. Michel was out for the count. Ray peeked through a space between crates. Francois still sat in the crane, but his expression rapidly changed from confusion to alarm. He fumbled with the harness.

Concealment was a moot point now. Ray stood, drawing his gun. Francois was out of the crane, his mouth working. Yelling his head off, by the looks of it, but Ray couldn't hear him over the sound of the engine. He took aim just as Francois began running toward land. Before Ray could fire, a can of peaches soared overhead. It struck the back of Francois' head. He sprawled on the dock and didn't move.

Ray grinned at Fraser. Then, the Mountie climbed off the barge and ran down the dock. He hoisted the unconscious Francois in a fireman's carry and rushed back. Meanwhile, Ray dragged Michel over to Guy, and secured the limp man with rope and a red flannel gag. Then, he helped Fraser get Francois into the barge. They laid the third man, tied and gagged, with the other two. Ray kept glancing up at the cabin, but no one came out.

They took a few minutes to search the unconscious men. Francois had a set of keys that appeared to belong to the big truck. Michel had a hunting knife. But, Guy! He was the treasure trove, sporting a .44 Magnum in a shoulder holster and a bar of chocolate in his vest pocket. Ray handed the gun to Fraser. Fraser checked the load and the safety before tucking it in the back of his jeans. It was weird for Ray to see him casually accept the handgun without demur, but, he reminded himself, this was Canada. He was the one who wasn't licensed to carry. Fraser removed the drivers licenses from the wallets of the three men, tucked them in his pocket, then tossed the wallets on the deck.

Ray retrieved the wallets, took out the money, and dropped them again. At Fraser's raised eyebrows, he said, "We're in Canada, Benny. We're gonna need Canadian cash. Unless you got enough?"

He shook his head. While his salary was paid in Canadian funds, he had converted last week's pay to US currency. And there wasn't much of that left. This week's payday had come and gone while he sat in a crate on a barge on a Lake. He swallowed his protest.

"You're right, of course," he said, pocketing the cash that Ray handed him. "May I borrow your notebook?"

Ray reached into his breast pocket, "What for?" he asked, handing it to his friend.

"IOUs," he said, as he began writing.

Ray snatched the notebook back. Fraser, deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, dropped the subject. He had the drivers licenses they had confiscated. Assuming the men did not end up in custody, he knew where to send the money orders.

They made their way off the barge. When they came to the crane, Fraser reached to turn off the engine, then stopped. The fact that it drowned out other sounds concerned him. But, silencing it might alert the men in the cabin. He left it running. They hurried to the end of the dock. Just as they reached it, the door of the cabin opened. Fraser and Ray dove for the small enclosure that housed the fuel tank, then peered around its edge. A man, gray-bearded Luc, lit a cigarette, then leaned against the cabin wall. Ray was glad now that they had left the crane engine running. Luc looked down the dock in mild curiosity, but did not raise an alarm. He continued his after dinner smoke. But, there was no way to get to the truck without him seeing them.

Fraser laid a hand on his arm. He gestured to himself, then Ray, then pointed to the shed. Ray nodded, taking out his gun. He kept an eye on the smoking man, while Fraser moved, using what cover there was till he reached the shed door. Ray did the same. They eased the door open and slipped inside. Ray waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. When they did, he saw that the shed was used as a garage and toolshed. Most of the space was taken up by six large cylindrical shapes under tarps. Fraser pulled a tarp away. A gleaming red snowmobile was revealed. He whipped the next tarp off. It looked like the same model to Ray, only black in color. Fraser had that look - the one where he was smiling even though he wasn't. Ray shook his head sharply, and dangled the truck keys in his direction. Fraser came over to speak directly in his ear.

"The snowmobiles will be faster and more maneuverable on this terrain and can cover a greater distance on a smaller amount of fuel. The truck, assuming it's even gassed up, can go 20 kph at best on that rough road. It would present a large, lumbering target. We wouldn't get a hundred feet before they shot out the tires."

"Fraser, I have never been on a snowmobile in my life!"

"It's easy, Ray," he reassured him. "Easier than a motorcycle. And you told me you used to ride a pig."

He blinked. "Hog," he corrected, automatically. "That's different!"

"The operation is essentially the same. Throttle on the right; brake on the left. And you don't have to balance the snowmobile."

Ray glared at him. He hated when Fraser was right. "OK, but I get the red one."

"Understood," he said. "I have to check the batteries and the oil in the crankcase and put gas in the tanks."

"I'll take lookout," Ray said. "Hurry. I don't think they'll be lingering over coffee and dessert."

Fraser bent over the red snowmobile and lifted the hood. Ray went back to the door. From this vantage, he had a view of the cabin and the dock. He adjusted his grip on his gun, his hand sweating despite the cold. Jacques, the tall, skinny man, came out of the cabin. He bummed a cigarette off Luc. They stood there, talking. His stomach lurched as Luc pointed to the crane, and said something to the other man. He nodded, and the two of them walked at a leisurely pace toward the dock. He moved to stay out of their sight but kept his gun trained on them, glancing into the shed from time to time. Behind him, Fraser was pouring the contents of a gasoline container into the tank of the red snowmobile.

Ray watched as the men reached the crane. Luc reached up and turned off the engine. The sudden silence was deafening.

"Hurry up, Benny," he muttered, glancing over his shoulder. Apparently finished with the red machine, Fraser had started on the black one. At the crane, Luc put both hands to his mouth and called, "Guy! Michel! Francois! Ou etes-vous? Guy!" When there was no answer, they continued down the dock to the barge, calling the names of the missing men.

The door to the cabin opened and Jean, the tugboat pilot, exited. He shouldered into a jacket and pulled gloves on to his hands, all the while peering down the dock. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, "Luc! Jacques! Qu'est que c'est?"

Jacques jumped on to the barge; Luc remained on the dock and yelled back to Jean, though Ray didn't understand a word. Jean poked his head back into the cabin door and said something. Pierre joined him, fumbling with his coat and hat. The reason for his awkwardness was revealed when he handed a shotgun to Jean. Ray did a quick headcount. Three trussed up on the barge, two about to find them, and these two at the cabin. Seven men all accounted for. He watched as Jean and Pierre left the porch and proceeded to the dock. He held his breath. They might catch a break here. If all seven men were way down at the barge before the alarm was sounded -

No such luck. Pandemonium broke out on the barge. Ray guessed that they had found the three bound men. Jean and Pierre broke into a run. He ducked back into the shed. Fraser was working under the hood of the black snowmobile, tipping a can of oil into a funnel stuck in the crankcase.

"We gotta go now!"

He nodded, and calmly continued with his task. He gestured with his head to the red vehicle. "That one's ready to go, Ray. Put on the helmet that's in the back compartment." He rushed to comply. "Get on. Now, start the engine with that key there."

Ray balked. "They'll hear that. Yours isn't ready, yet."

"It will be. Go. Head north, up the hill. I'll meet you in a few minutes." He hesitated. "If I can't, go on without me. Stay away from the road."

Still, Ray hesitated, then realizing he needed to get the red snowmobile out of Fraser's way before he could get the black one out, he flicked the key. The engine started with a roar which was amplified in the confined space. He knew the men on the dock must have heard it. He revved the engine, then put the snowmobile in gear, and tentatively turned the throttle. The snowmobile jerked forward, surprising Ray with its power. He pushed the visor down on the helmet and gave it more gas. The snowmobile surged forward banging the door out of its way, which then swung shut behind him.

Ray saw three men, still on the dock, running his way. Jean, Pierre, and Luc. Suddenly, Jean stopped in his tracks and swung the shotgun up. Ray turned sharply to the right and juiced the throttle. The snowmobile surged forward. An instant later, shotgun pellets hit the shed where Ray had been a moment before. He headed for the hill. As he passed under the first tree, a shot gouged the trunk. He raced up the hill, the snowmobile roaring beneath him. He had to throttle back to maneuver around trees and rocks, but quickly reached the top of the hill. He swung the machine around and faced down the hill, the engine idling.

In the shed, Fraser lowered the hood of the black snowmobile. As he latched it, a voice said, over his shoulder, "Hurry up, son."

"I'm going as fast as I can, Dad."

He grabbed the gasoline can and hurried to the rear of the vehicle. He unscrewed the gas tank cap, and tipped the gas can into it.

"They're coming, son."

Fraser didn't answer. He emptied the can and set it aside, then mounted the snowmobile. He turned the key. The engine cranked but didn't turn over. He jumped off the seat and rushed to open the hood. Bob Fraser kept an anxious eye on the door.

From his position on top of the hill, Ray watched anxiously for his friend. "C'mon, Fraser. C'mon!" Ray muttered, as he watched Jean calmly reload the shotgun from the end of the dock. Pierre and Luc ran off the dock, guns in hand, their focus on Ray. He realized they hadn't yet considered that there might be a second man in their shed. He took advantage of this momentary situation and revved his engine provocatively. He remembered the rude gesture that Guy had made and used it.

It worked like a charm. Pierre and Luc went ballistic, firing wildly at him. He flinched and ducked, even though he knew he was out of range. Jean screamed at his men, who stopped firing and looked sheepish. Jean yelled and gestured at the shed. Ray didn't need a translation. He was ordering them to get the snowmobiles. The men turned back to Jean and hurried for the shed. Ray revved the engine again and yelled. They looked up at him, temporarily distracted, but didn't fire.

At that moment, the black snowmobile burst through the door of the shed, scattering the three men. They dove for the snow covered ground. Jean recovered first, rolling over and bringing the shotgun up, but Fraser expertly handled his machine, spraying snow in a big rooster tail right in Jean's face, spoiling his aim. He scooted around them, positioning the snowmobile between the truck and the cabin. Keeping the vehicle between himself and the gunmen, he headed for the treeline.

Luc and Pierre scrambled on hands and knees, searching for their guns in the snow. Jean stood, wiping snow from his face. He cocked his head, listening for the sound of the engine. As the noise approached the front of the truck, he took careful aim. He fired both barrels as the snowmobile cleared the larger vehicle. But, Fraser was leaning way over on the left side of the machine. Jean's shotgun blast flew harmlessly over him. Fraser tipped the machine back on both skis and slewed the machine around so that he faced the truck. While Jean was reloading, Fraser shot out the front tires. Then, in one smooth motion, he whipped the vehicle around and darted up the hill. Jean fired the shotgun. It took a snowladen branch off a pine tree that Fraser had just passed under. Then, he was out of range. Jean lowered the gun, and rounded on his men.

As Fraser approached Ray's position, he gestured for him to follow. Ray returned his gun to its holster, turned the machine and followed They cruised for an hour, away from the road, roughly north but not in a straight line. Ray was getting a feel for his snowmobile. The wind was powerful, and he was grateful for the handmade tarpaulin windbreaker under his overcoat. Fraser was right. It wasn't that different from a motorcycle. Despite the cold, and the danger, he was enjoying the ride. After being cooped up in the barge for so long, the freedom of movement was intoxicating. Finally, Fraser signaled a stop. They positioned the machines side by side, looking back on their own trail. There was no sign of pursuit.

"Nice moves back there, Benny," Ray said, impressed. Up till now, he had only seen Fraser's pitiful city driving. Well, that and a dogsled. The Mountie was clearly in his element now.

"Thanks, Ray." Fraser popped off his idling snowmobile, and moved to the back of the machine. Then, flipping the compartment lid open, he pulled out the helmet that was stored there. He hadn't taken the time to put it on in the mad dash from the shed.

As he tightened the strap under his chin, Fraser said, "They'll follow us, Ray. I didn't have time to disable the other snowmobiles."

"I know," he said. "At least, you got the truck. Why didn't we follow the road?"

"They'd expect that." He had looked longingly at the rough road's tempting path through the woods, knowing that it eventually would lead to a main road. "Plus, they can call for reinforcements." At Ray's surprised look, explained, "You said it yourself - this is a well organized and funded enterprise."

The penny dropped. "A radio," Ray said. "They gotta have one in that cabin."

"Plus, one on the tug and probably the truck, as well."

Ray looked thoughtful, "We'd have been sandwiched between Jean & Co. behind us and incoming forces to the front."

"Possibly," he said, shrugging, "or maybe I'm being overcautious. I don't think we can afford to take the chance." He took advantage of the pause to check both machines out more thoroughly.

Ray took the opportunity to relieve himself against a tree. He zipped up, pulled on his gloves, and returned to his machine. "I like it," he said, simply.

Fraser ran a hand slowly along the gleaming hull of his snowmobile. In the same tone that Ray used when he talked of his beloved Riv, he said, "I always wanted to try one of these, Ray. The Arctic Cat 3000. Mountain series. Top of the line. Best speed on one of these is 120 kph." At Ray's glance, he translated, "75 mph."

"Wow," he said, impressed. "When are we gonna let her rip?"

Fraser shook his head, "Only on a course. Too many hazards out in the wild for that speed."

"Someday, Benny."

"Yes," he said, dreamily. "Someday." Then, shaking himself out of his reverie, he zipped his own jacket to the neck and pulled on his gloves. "I should take point. There are hidden dangers with snowmobiling, Ray, if you don't know the signs. Ice, tree roots, rocks, avalanches –"

"Don't worry, Benny. I'll follow you." He mounted the red Arctic Cat, wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck, and lowered his visor. He gripped the handlebars. "Lead on, Macduff!"

Fraser mounted his vehicle and slapped down his visor, saying, "Actually, Ray, that's a common misquote. The actual phrase is "Lay on, Macduff, "lay on' meaning 'to attack' or 'on guard'. Of course, the misquotations of Shakespeare have often become more familiar than the actual vers –" He stopped as Ray revved the throttle, drowning him out.

"Understood." Fraser put the snowmobile in gear and accelerated. He glanced over his shoulder to see that Ray was following at a safe distance, then veered to the northeast.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

"People! People! Settle down," Lieutenant Welsh said to the gathering in Interview Room 1. "Thank you," he said, as quiet descended. "Let's go over what we know for the benefit of our Canadian colleagues."

Thatcher nodded appreciatively. She had insisted on being briefed on the investigation into the missing officers.

He took a breath. "We have bits and pieces of a puzzle. Let's share them and see if we can fit them together." He rubbed tired eyes. "Huey, you start."

Huey looked solemnly at Thatcher. "We found Vecchio's car at Brannigan's Wharf. It was well-hidden, but with a good view of the area. Nothing was amiss with the car." He paused. "Other, than that it was there. We think Vecchio and Fraser were surveilling the Wharf from that position the night they disappeared."

"The night Fraser sent the note," she said, grimly.

"Yeah. We think they left the car there to pursue a lead at the Wharf. And expected to return to it afterward.

"Ray would _never_ leave the Riv in an area like that otherwise," Elaine put in.

Huey nodded. "Exactly." He continued. "We traced their steps earlier that day. They left here around noon, with Diefenbaker, and started at the boarding houses where Albert Ames and Brian Mosely rented rooms."

"The murder victims," she reiterated.

"Yes. The landlords let them in to the rooms, and saw them leave. The last place was Mosely's. They left there around three." He glanced at his partner.

Guardino pulled out his notebook. "They had a late lunch or early dinner at La Dolce on Strayker." He consulted his notes. "Ray had the pasta carbonara, Fraser, the ravioli, and Dief, spaghetti with meatballs. That was the special." He looked up. "You'll never guess where they went next."

Turnbull blurted, "Branson!"

Everybody stared at him, then Guardino shook his head. "The library!" he announced.

"The library?" Thatcher echoed.

"Yeah, the waitress heard them talking. The North Chicago branch is only a block or two away."

"What were they doing at the library?"

"Fraser borrowed crayons from a librar-"

She interrupted him. "Excuse me, did you say crayons?"

"Yeah, crayons."

"As in Crayola?"

"Yeah."

"What was he doing with crayons?"

"Coloring within the lines?" he said, laughing. At Thatcher's frosty look, he went on, "Anyway, he returned the crayons at six. The librarian thought they left then. She didn't see them when the library closed at seven."

Huey took over. "Elaine found a receipt in the car for a sandwich shop on Delancey. They bought coffee, corned beef sandwiches, snacks - you know, stakeout grub. The shop was _en route _between the library and the Wharf." He paused in thought. "They ate the sandwiches at some point. The empty wrappers were in the car."

Diefenbaker yipped in affirmation.

Huey went on. "The businesses on the Wharf mostly shut down at night. Except for the Redeye Bar, which stays open till 2 am. Now, we figure Ray and Fraser were keeping a low profile, so we didn't go around the Wharf asking about them. The bar, particularly."

"We should have somebody watching that bar," she put in.

Welsh said, "We do. Huey and Guardino were there all night. Their relief is there now."

Guardino cleared his throat. "We took up the stakeout last night from the same spot where we found Vecchio's car. Dief and I took a stroll along the pier. Surreptitious-like. He flagged a warehouse at the end of the pier." He paused for effect. "Later on, we saw a tugboat bring a barge into that warehouse. Around 11."

"A barge! Fraser's note mentioned a barge!"

"Exactly!" he said, excitedly. "Here's the thing. The barge was loaded with cargo. It slid _under_ the warehouse. They unloaded it from underneath, completely out of sight."

Thatcher looked around the room. "I don't know much about wharfs and barges, but that sounds like an unusual arrangement."

"I've never heard of any other like it," Welsh agreed.

"That's very suspicious," Turnbull said. "It would certainly seem that criminal activity may be taking place there."

No one responded to this statement of the obvious.

"Who owns that warehouse?" Thatcher asked.

Welsh nodded to Elaine. She picked up the narrative. "The property records are convoluted. There are several dummy corporations that lease and sublease and sub-sublease, and so on. I dug back far enough to a company that is registered in the name of Aldo Milano."

"Who is he?"

"Frank Nardo's former brother-in-law." she replied.

"Former," Thatcher said, frowning. "Divorced?"

"Dead," Elaine said, then added, "He had a heart attack five years ago. But, he _was_ a part of the Nardo Family syndicate."

"Nardo. That's also in keeping with Fraser's note," Thatcher said.

Huey spoke. "And I have a snit – uh, a confidential informant - hanging out in the Redeye. He said -" He stopped abruptly, and looked away.

"That's good," she said, tentatively. She sensed the change in the atmosphere of the room. "What did he say? What aren't you saying?"

Huey exchanged glances with Welsh, and the Lieutenant picked up the thread from there. "The CI is a reliable source. He overheard two of Nardo's men in the bar."

"What were they talking about?"

He hesitated.

"Don't sugarcoat it, Lieutenant," she said, sharply.

"They were discussing the very recent disposal of two dead bodies," Welsh said, bluntly.

Turnbull gasped and put a hand to his mouth. Thatcher paled, but otherwise remained expressionless.

There was a silence. Thatcher broke it. "You think they were talking about Constable Fraser and Detective Vecchio?"

"Possibly," Welsh acknowledged. "It would explain their disappearance. But, it's by no means certain." He patted Turnbull's shoulder. The young officer was visibly upset. "I wouldn't give up on those two just yet."

Thatcher straightened in her chair. "We have to get into the warehouse."

"We don't have enough for a warrant. Not yet."

"Fraser and Vecchio could be inside right now! Hurt, or ..." She stopped as she heard the shrill note creeping into her voice.

"I have my men watching it closely. We're trying to build a case, Inspector. But the links are too tentative. So far."

"But, ..."

Welsh's frustration was clear. "I can't present a judge with a warrant application based on an unattested, nearly illegible note, an overheard conversation, and the testimony of a wolf! Even old Judge Smiley won't go for it! And he's practically senile."

Thatcher took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. "All right, Lieutenant. I understand the legal limitations here." She paused. "What do we do next?"

Welsh rubbed the bridge of his nose. "One. Surveillance of the Wharf round the clock. Two. Keep the informant in place in the bar. Three. Continue to look for Vecchio and Fraser. We have BOLOs out to every law enforcement agency in the greater Chicago area."

Thatcher bit her lip. She was not satisfied, not satisfied at all, but to be fair, she didn't have an alternative course of action to suggest. She glanced around the room and noticed Elaine watching her, intently. Thatcher arched her eyebrows in a question, but the aide shook her head, sharply. Thatcher turned back to Welsh. "Thank you for informing me about the course of your investigation. Please let me know if anything further develops, or if I can be of any assistance."

"I will."

They shook hands. She said, "Come along, Turnbull, Diefenbaker." As they were leaving the room, Thatcher turned back. "Lieutenant, might I have a copy of the information discovered to date?"

"Yes, of course," Welsh said. "Elaine?"

Elaine followed them from the room. She went to her desk and assembled documents in a file. As she handed them to Thatcher, she looked meaningfully at Turnbull and gave a slight jerk of her head.

Thatcher turned to the young man. "Take the wolf for a walk. I want him emptied before he gets in the car. I'll meet you outside in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, then smiled a shy goodbye to Elaine.

"I need to use the washroom," Thatcher said, taking the pages from the aide.

"Me, too," she said. "I'll show you where it is." When they entered the ladies room, Elaine checked all the stalls before locking the door. She leaned against the sink.

Thatcher crossed her arms and waited.

After a moment, Elaine said, "You have diplomatic immunity, right?"

Thatcher was taken aback at the question. "Y-yes." Then, she lifted her head. "Since the Consulate staff was downsized last year, I am the chief Canadian diplomatic officer in Chicago." She paused. "I have full diplomatic immunity."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

Thatcher bit back the retort that came automatically to her lips. She realized that this was the first one-on-one conversation that she had had with the civilian aide. The young woman was clearly uncomfortable, perhaps even nervous. Thatcher answered the question, without argument. "In the United States, I cannot be detained, arrested, prosecuted or subpoenaed." She flashed a smile. "I can still get a parking ticket, however."

"Wow," Elaine said, impressed. "You can get away with murder!"

"Well, not exactly," she said. "I mean, if I did that, my government could choose to waive the privilege." That hadn't come out right. "Not that I would ever –"

"No, of course not," she said, quickly.

"Why do you ask?" Thatcher said. She couldn't help the trace of suspicion in her voice.

Elaine hesitated, her nervousness increasing. "Maybe this was a bad idea. I mean, I don't know you. Not really."

Thatcher waited as patiently as she could. But, patience was not her strong suit, and Elaine picked up on that. She brushed a loose curl from her forehead, and said firmly. "Fraser knows you, though. And_ he_ trusts you."

Thatcher looked skeptical. "I don't know about that," she began, but Elaine interrupted her.

"I know he does," she said. "I've heard him talk about you to Ray." She took a deep breath. "Fraser trusts you. And I trust Fraser." She looked intensely at Thatcher. "Do you promise not to tell _anyone_ about what we talk about? I mean, you don't have to do anything, if you don't want to. But, will you promise to keep this conversation confidential?"

Thatcher wondered if this woman was right. _Did_ Fraser trust her? She'd given him little enough reason to do so in her tenure as his commander. She realized, suddenly, that she wanted it to be true. She wanted to be worthy of that trust. Well, no time like the present. She nodded. "I give you my word."

Elaine let out a breath. "I want to be a cop." At Thatcher's exasperated look, she spoke quickly, "I'm not asking you for career advice, Inspector. Hear me out, OK?"

"OK," she said, reeling in her impatience.

"I'm going for my degree in criminal justice. We studied a case in class recently about search warrants and the Constitution." She paused, cocking her head to the side. "Does Canada have a constitution?"

"Our constitution is one of the oldest in the world. Its roots go back to the _Magna Carta_," Thatcher said, proudly.

"Huh," Elaine said, then continued, "In this case, a private citizen illegally obtained evidence and turned it over to the police. He wasn't coerced by the cops, or otherwise put up to it to make a deal. They got a search warrant based on that illegal evidence, and found more evidence that led to an arrest and conviction. The defendant argued in court that the search warrant was invalid, because the initial evidence was obtained illegally."

"How did the court rule?"

"They upheld the warrant," she explained. "See, our constitution prohibits the _police_ from obtaining evidence illegally, but not private citizens. The private citizen who broke the law was prosecuted for his crime, but the search warrant stood up."

"Interesting," she said. She waited for more. When Elaine remained silent, she said, "Does this have anything to do with Fraser and Vecchio?"

Elaine nodded, "I'm really worried about them."

"I still don't see –"

She interrupted her. "_You're_ a private citizen. I mean you're a police inspector, but not here in the States," she pointed out. "You're not an American citizen, but I don't think that makes a difference." She paused. "And, you have diplomatic immunity."

Thatcher rocked back on her heels. "Are you suggesting that I break into Frankie "The Toothpick" Nardo's warehouse and look for evidence of criminal activity?"

Elaine crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm not suggesting anything, Inspector. I may not be a police officer - not yet - but I am an employee of the Chicago Police Department. I'm only discussing an interesting point of law with a female law enforcement officer that I happen to respect and admire."

Thatcher looked at this petite young woman with new eyes. "It _is_ an interesting area of the law, indeed." She thrust out her hand and Elaine took it. "I've enjoyed our discussion, Elaine. Thank you for bringing that case to my attention." She checked her appearance in the mirror, brushed back her hair, and straightened her jacket. She said goodbye, then turned to leave. She had a thought and turned back. "Do you know why he's called "The Toothpick"?

"No," she said, shivering slightly, "they won't tell me."

Thatcher left the ladies room. She was lost in thought as she descended the stairs, exited the station, and climbed into the car where Turnbull and Diefenbaker waited for her.

"Back to the Consulate, ma'am?" Turnbull asked.

"No, Constable. Just drive. I need to think," she said, absently. She leafed through the material that Elaine had provided. There was a sketch showing the layout of the warehouse, the bar and other buildings on the pier and photographs of the same. A detailed report of the detectives included the content of the conversation overheard by Detective Huey's confidential informant in the Redeye Bar.

How on earth was she to gain access to this warehouse without being detected? It was surrounded on three sides by water. The entrance via the pier would be too visible, both to the warehouse occupants and the stakeout team. Access by boat? Hardly inconspicuous. Underwater passage would offer concealment, but she was no commando**. **Her scuba experience was limited to the occasional Caribbean vacation. She couldn't rappel out of a helicopter to the roof. Even if she knew how, the racket would wake the dead.

Diefenbaker put a paw on her leg. She looked down into his expressive eyes. She was reminded that he had walked across the city, cold, alone, and in the dark, to deliver that note to her. The note that Fraser had scrawled, under what she was sure had been desperate circumstances. He had counted on her. She felt like she was betraying the trust he had placed in her. If he was captive, possibly injured, in that warehouse ... or worse ...

Thatcher grasped Diefenbaker's muzzle and looking intently into his eyes. "You know what happened to them, don't you?" He whined eloquently.

"No, ma'am," Turnbull said. He peered in the mirror.

She ignored him. "I wish you could talk," she muttered.

"I can, ma'am," Turnbull said, surprised.

"I meant the wolf," she said irritably. "Keep your eyes on the road, Constable."

"Yes, ma'am."

The wolf's eyes shone with intelligence and humor, as if he understood exactly what she was saying. She felt inadequate not being able to reciprocate. Fraser had a rapport with the animal that was spooky at times, irritating at others, as if they were talking about her behind her back while she was standing right in front of them. She had indulged him in allowing Diefenbaker at the Consulate, for the pet's sake. Big dogs were not meant to be cooped up alone in an apartment all day, much less a half wolf. As she rubbed his ears, she suddenly understood that Diefenbaker was not a pet. He was a partner. For the first time, she realized what an exceptional team he and Fraser made. What would become of him, if Fraser ... ?

She quashed that thought and patted Diefenbaker's head. She sighed, unwilling to resign herself to a passive role as the Chicago Police Department continued to build a case against Frankie "The Toothpick" Nardo. But, she didn't know what else to do. She hated to disappoint Elaine. She appreciated the civilian aide thinking outside the box, as well as the feminine solidarity she had demonstrated. She would make a fine officer one day. The Chicago police force would be lucky to have her. Any force would be.

_Think, Meg, think! _She berated herself for her lack of imagination, but she could hardly walk up to the front door and knock. She smiled sardonically as she imagined herself trying to deliver a pizza, or pose as a city inspector. No mobster with half a brain would fall for any ruse she could come up with and admit her to a warehouse storing illegal goods. Of course, not all mobsters _had _half a brain. She glanced at Turnbull. Or, all police officers. Or, all men, for that matter. Especially, when they were thinking with another part of their anatomy.

She grabbed the detectives' report and read through the informant's statement carefully. Though his identity was protected, there were mug shots and rap sheets of the two men he had overhead talking in the pool room of the bar. She stared out the window as a thought formed. She couldn't force her way into the warehouse, but maybe she could wrangle an invitation.

"Turnbull!"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Take me home." She looked down at her business suit and low heels. "I have to change."

He turned left at the next light and proceeded downtown.

For the rest of the ride, she mentally reviewed the contents of her wardrobe. She should be able to manage something ... suitable.

As he pulled in to the garage of her apartment building, Turnbull said, "Shall I wait, ma'am?"

"Yes, I won't be long."

As she opened the door, he cleared his throat and said, stiffly, "I'll be right back, ma'am. I need to use the ... ahem ... facilities ... somewhere ..."

"Turn the engine off," she said. "You can use my powder room."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, humbly.

Diefenbaker whined at being left behind. She relented and let him come up, but with an admonition not to shed on her furniture.

Turnbull slowly followed her through the apartment door. While he had often been at the building, he had always waited in the car. The Inspector's apartment was an elegantly furnished suite of rooms. It reminded him of her office, neat as a pin, every item of the decor carefully selected. He wondered if she had used the same professional decorator for her home. He removed his hat and stood on the welcome mat, ill at ease. Diefenbaker had no such compunction and trotted into the room, his entire body bristling with curiosity.

"Through there," she pointed, as she headed into her bedroom and shut the door.

Turnbull wiped his feet on the mat, before carefully checking each sole, then he wiped them again. He tentatively crossed to the powder room and shut the door. It was very feminine, very chic, very ... pink. He felt like an alien as he lifted the toilet seat.

Diefenbaker walked into the kitchen, his nails click-clacking on the shiny floor. He nosed around, looking for any tidbits which had dropped, but there was nothing. He sniffed the air. No cooking had taken place here in quite some time. If ever. He wanted to peek in the refrigerator, but he was a guest and behaved himself. He wrinkled his nose, disdainfully. It was probably full of yogurt and green leaves, anyway.

Turnbull returned to the living room. He stood stiffly by a gas fireplace, his hat in his hands. He could hear the faint sounds of the Inspector behind closed doors. He had no idea what was going on, but it was none of his business, anyway. He stood at parade rest and stilled his curiosity.

Diefenbaker joined him. The dog sat on his haunches and looked pointedly at the mantle. Turnbull followed his gaze. There were two framed photographs, the only personal touches in the room. An older couple, the woman bearing a strong resemblance to the Inspector, smiled at him. Her parents, no doubt. The other was of a little girl, dark hair braided into pigtails. She was holding a puppy and grinning broadly, despite the silver braces on her teeth. Again, he noted the family resemblance. A niece, perhaps? Diefenbaker woofed . Turnbull picked up the frame, and looked more closely. It was Inspector Thatcher, age 9 or 10; the puppy a tiny dachshund. Its pink tongue licked her cheek.

"Turnbull!"

He whirled, guiltily and fumbled to return the picture to its proper place. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Come here," she called.

He obeyed, with an apprehensive air. She stood in the middle of the bedroom, her head tilted as she donned an earring. She turned her back to him.

"The zipper's stuck."

He hesitated until she shot him an impatient glance over her shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he bent to the task. He could feel her impatience growing until finally, he got it sorted, and pulled the zipper of the dress all the way up. When he stepped back, his face was as red as his uniform.

She stepped into shoes that elevated her to his eye level. As she turned to face him, he sucked in a breath at her appearance. Gone was the elegantly attired professional woman and any resemblance to the young girl in the picture. The black dress was form-fitting, accentuating her figure. She had done something to her hair, teasing it up one side and catching it in a glittering clasp. Her makeup was different too. Heavy eyeshadow and mascara and bright red lipstick transformed her face. He would not have recognized her if he had passed her in the street. The dress came only to mid-thigh, exposing long legs encased in sheer hose. The shoes were stiletto-heeled, and he wondered, not for the first time, how women managed to keep their balance in such things. She wore dangling earrings, a glittering necklace, and a chunky bracelet.

Turnbull didn't know where to put his eyes. He averted them from the Inspector, but then they lit on the bed. He swung his gaze away, only to see lingerie dangling on the back of chair. Finally, he ended up looking at the wolf, who stared brazenly at the Inspector, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. She didn't seem to notice Turnbull's discomfiture. She made one last check in the mirror, grabbed her purse and a short fur jacket from the bed, then herded them out of the apartment.

He held the car door for her, then climbed behind the wheel. "Where to, ma'am?"

"Brannigan's Wharf."

His eyebrows rose at that, but he stayed silent. Traffic was light and they arrived without incident. Turnbull pondered the odd situation that had developed. He wished Constable Fraser was here so that he could ask him to explain. Constable Fraser was always willing to explain things to him. But, he wasn't here. And that must be the reason the Inspector had done herself up like ... like ... he struggled for the right word, but only one would come. Floozy. He was instantly ashamed at the thought. Whatever the Inspector was doing in this guise, it was because Constable Fraser and Detective Vecchio were missing. He was sure of that, even if he was unsure of everything else.

She directed him to park on a side street. She grabbed her purse, and leaned forward over the seat. "You can leave, Constable. I'll take a cab home."

"But, ma'am," he protested, "I can't leave you here. Not in this neighborhood." Not dressed like that, he thought, wishing again that Constable Fraser was here.

She bristled. "I am perfectly capable of handling myself in this or any neighborhood, Constable." She answered his unspoken thought. " Even dressed like this."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, meekly. Then, more boldly, "Shouldn't I know what you're going to do?"

"I can't tell you." At his surprised look, she added, "It's for your own good, Constable."

"But, ma'am. What if there's trouble?" He remembered what Detective Vecchio was always complaining about with Constable Fraser. "What if you need, uh, backup?"

Despite her impatience, she realized that he was right. A rare occurrence for him. "All right. Wait here. If I'm not back in four hours, call Lieutenant Welsh. Explain the situation to him."

He scratched his head. "I don't know what the situation is."

"Good."

Turnbull nodded, uncertainly. "Four hours." He lifted his wrist. "Perhaps, we should synchronize our watches, ma'am?"

She rolled her eyes, but confirmed that she had 8:04 pm. He had 8:03 and quickly adjusted his watch. She reached for the handle of the door, then turned back. "Under no circumstances, and I mean none, are you to come looking for me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir! I mean, ma'am!"

She nodded, then she was gone.

Diefenbaker and Turnbull exchanged glances, then he turned on the radio. He moved the dial off the classical station, then settled back as Billy Ray Cyrus sang of his _Achy Breaky Heart. _


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

"I wouldn't kick _her_ out of bed," Guardino said, peering through the binoculars.

"Which one?"

"The one in the red jacket."

"She's not bad," Huey acknowledged. "But I prefer the tall one."

Guardino laughed. "That's a guy, Jack."

Huey grabbed the binoculars and trained them on the tall woman with the big hair. "No, she's a she," he insisted, though now that he had a closer look, he was none too sure. He'd be damned before he admitted it, though.

So far, the comings and goings at the Redeye Bar had been steady, but nothing out of the ordinary. Huey's informant, Reg, was in place, as the inside man.

"Now, that one's a hottie," Guardino said, with a whistle.

Huey peered through the binoculars. A dark-haired woman in a fur jacket was approaching the bar. "Great legs," he said. "They go all the way to the moon."

Guardino took the binoculars. "Nice shoes."

"What is it with you and shoes?" Huey complained.

He shrugged. "My old man was in the shoe business." His gaze traveled from her feet all the way up to her face. Something about her was familiar. He shrugged internally. One of the regulars, presumably. This was their second night staking out the establishment and they were getting familiar with the cast of characters.

Inspector Margaret Thatcher pulled open the door of the bar. She was greeted with a blast of warm air and loud music. She hesitated, before squaring her shoulders and marching inside. The bar was smoky and crowded. She took her bearings. Tables to the left, bar to the right, band in the corner, pool tables at the back. She made her way to the bar.

The bartender gave her an appreciative, though not particularly offensive, look. He leaned toward her and raised his voice. "What can I get you, pretty lady?"

"May I see your wine list?"

He gave her a suspicious look. "We got red and we got white. And that's the list."

She grinned. "Just kidding. White," she said, mentally kicking herself_. Great way to fit in, Meg, _she thought. This was hardly the lounge at the Four Seasons.

She sipped her wine and suppressed the urge to make a face. She surveyed the room. Heads had turned when she opened the door, several men had given her the once-over, but the room had quickly returned to normal. The tables were full, the crowd an apparently happy one. She scanned the faces, but didn't see the ones she sought. She took off her jacket and slung it over one arm, then sauntered to the back room. There were two pool tables. The action seemed to be centered on the one to the left. A competition was going on between two men, with the others in the room spectating. She moved closer, finding a space against one wall. Two men parted so that she could stand between them, then regrouped. She nodded her thanks and sipped her drink.

She watched the play for a while until one man made a spectacular shot and won the game. Money changed hands amid cheers and groans. The crowd broke up and the players and onlookers moved to the bar for fresh drinks. The room cleared out, leaving only a few people. Two men picked up cue sticks at the far table. She recognized the younger one. She had seen his mug shot in the file Elaine had given her. Robert "Bobby" Vitale. He worked in the warehouse across the pier, presumably for Frank Nardo. He had a criminal record, mostly minor offenses. But, she had gleaned from the report that he was a loose-lipped braggart, who liked to impress women with his tough guy persona. The other man was unfamiliar. Big, bearded, and tattooed. A biker. Not the companion mentioned in the report.

They looked up as she approached.

"Can I play?" she said, coquettishly.

"I don't know, darlin'. Can you?" said the biker. His gap-toothed grin was friendly, and only slightly lascivious. Bobby, however, stared fixedly at her chest.

"My friends tell me I'm good at breaking balls," she said, with an innocent look.

Biker-man laughed and handed her his cue stick. "You're on," he said.

At that, a woman detached herself from the back wall, sauntered over and reattached herself to the biker's arm. Big hair, leather, chains, and tattoos, she was attractive in a rough-hewn way. About Thatcher's age. She looked daggers at Meg. "Eddie, I need a drink," she said. "Right now." The edge to her voice could cut glass.

Eddie looked at her, then said to Thatcher, "Uh, why don't you take on Junior here."

"Don't call me 'Junior,'" Bobby said, resentfully.

Eddie and his woman left the back room. As they moved toward the bar, Thatcher heard him say, "But, baby, I wasn't doin nuthin."

Thatcher and the young man eyed each other. Rather, she looked at his face; he looked at her cleavage. She knew from his file that Bobby Vitale was twenty two. Despite the wispy mustache he affected, he looked even younger.

She set the cuestick down on the table. "Well, Junior. See you around."

"Wait," he said. "Let's play. I'll buy you a drink."

"Junior, you don't look old enough to buy anybody a drink."

"Don't call me Junior," he protested, with some heat. As she recoiled at his tone, he smiled and softened it. "My name's Bobby," he said, "Eddie calls me Junior to get my goat."

"I'm ... uh ... Meg," she countered. "I'm surprised they let you in here."

"Why not?"

"I mean, you do seem a little ... young."

"I'm twenty two."

"Ri-ight," she said, skeptically. "Whatever you say." She paused, then added with a twinkle. "Junior."

"I am." He pulled out his wallet and showed her his driver's license.

She squinted at it. "That looks real," she conceded.

"It_ is_ real," he retorted.

She handed the license back. "It's nothing personal, Jun– , I mean, Bobby." She shrugged. "It's just that I like older men."

"Maybe I like older women," he said, with a leer.

She laughed. "In your case, that would be most women."

He gave her a challenging look. "What's so great about older men, anyway?"

She looked askance. "If you don't know, I couldn't possibly explain it to you."

He was undeterred. "I got money. I got a job. I got a car. What more do you want?"

"Experience, Junior. I'm talking about experience."

"Hey, I ain't no virgin!" he said, hotly. "And I ain't had no complaints."

"That's not the kind of experience I'm talking about," she said. "I like a man that's done something." She gave him a sidelong glance. "Besides graduate high school." She paused. "Or not."

"I done plenty," he protested. "You'd be surprised."

"You wouldn't understand," she said, with a sigh. She turned to leave.

He stood in her way. "C'mon, Meg. Play one game with me," he said in a wheedling tone. He gestured around the now empty room. "I'm the oldest man here. Please?"

She made a pretense of thinking it over, then said, "All right. One game."

He racked the balls and gestured grandly to her. "Your break."

She nodded. She set up the break, chalked her cue, then leaned over, lining up her shot. From the corner of her eye, she saw him checking out her bum. She pulled her arm back and let fly with the cue. The balls broke with a satisfying _CRACK_, and the seven ball rocketed into the corner pocket. The sound transported her back in time to the basement of her parents' house and the hours she and her father had spent shooting pool after he got home from work. She was out of practice, but the basic skills were still there.

"Solids," she said. She moved around the table and lined up her second shot. She quelled her competitive instinct and deliberately flubbed the shot. "Damn!"

"Too bad, Meg," he said, insincerely. Then, he proceeded to knock in three striped balls in rapid succession.

"You're good, Bobby," she said, admiringly. "I see you have some experience," she added, coyly.

He preened a bit, then moved back so she could take her turn. Again, she missed. "Double damn," she said.

He quickly put away the rest of the striped balls. While he was doing so, a waitress came for their orders. When she returned with their drinks, Bobby waved Meg's money away. "This one's on me," he said, magnanimously.

"But I'm the loser," she protested.

"You're not a loser, Meg," he said, with a flirtatious smile. Meg expected him to bat his eyelashes next.

They played two more games, Meg making sure she lost badly in both. They were accompanied by more rounds of drinks, on Bobby's tab. She stuck with the wine; he was doing a shot and a beer each time.

As she missed yet another shot, he said. "You're not putting any spin on the ball. Here, let me show you."

He moved in behind her and put his arms around her, positioning his hands on top of hers. She felt his body press against her. Again, she suppressed her natural reactions and didn't pull away. She let him guide her hands and hit the cueball. A striped ball spun, banked and went in the pocket. "See what I mean," he said, in her ear. She could smell the beer on his breath.

"Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" she said, in a teasing tone.

He jerked back. She turned and looked at him in challenge. He furrowed his brow, puzzling out the meaning of her remark. She saw the light bulb go off and he laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. When he regained control, he shook his head. "It's both, I guess." He lifted the edge of his leather jacket. An automatic was nestled in a holster on his hip.

She let her eyes widen. "Is that ... real?"

"Yes, it's real," he retorted.

"Can I hold it?" she said, a little breathlessly.

He raised his eyebrows. "The gun or what's in my pocket?" he said, with a leer.

She met his eyes boldly. "The gun," she said, then added, "for now."

He looked around the room which had gathered a few people, then gestured her to a small alcove. He handed her the gun.

She took it awkwardly. ""Is it loaded?"

"Sure," he said, proudly. "What good is a piece that ain't?"

"It's heavy," she said, admiringly. She rubbed a finger along the length of the barrel and back. His breath hitched as she did so. "I've never held a gun before," she said, then looked up at him. "Are you a good shot?"

He nodded, proudly. "Yeah."

She handed it back to him. She leaned in closer. "You ever – you know – _used_ it?"

"Sure," he said.

"I don't mean target practice, Bobby," she said. She licked her parted lips.

He leaned over and whispered into her ear. "I made my bones," he said, seductively.

She sucked in a breath. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Yeah," he whispered. "It was two guys at the same time."

Her heart stuttered at that. She looked searchingly into his eyes. "Really? You're not just saying that, Bobby?"

"I wouldn't lie to you, Meg."

Her hand stole to her throat. She refused to consider the implications of his statements. Not here. Not now. "Because if you really did, Bobby, and you're not just saying that to get me to –" She looked down shyly. "I mean, if you really did ..." She looked in his eyes and whispered, "that would really turn me on. I've never ... been ... with a _man_ who had that kind of experience."

"I did, I really did!" He leaned in, trying to kiss her.

She pushed him away. "How do I know you're not just saying that. Any kid with a gun bought off the street could say that."

"I'm telling you, Meg. I did. Just the other night, in fact." He put his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. She offered a token resistance. "I can show you where."

"Oh, Bobby," she trilled. "Is it far?"

He jerked his head. "Just across the wharf. Come on."

"Bobby, if you're lying to me–," she began, but he stopped her with a kiss. Despite her revulsion, she kissed him back.

"I swear, Meg. Cross my heart," he murmured into her hair. Then, he took her hand. She grabbed her jacket and followed him out of the bar.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Huey checked his watch. 11:34. He yawned hugely, then took a sip of his lukewarm coffee.

"You see the fight last night on cable?" Guardino asked.

"Nah."

"Xavier knocked out Jackson in the third. Went down like a tree," he said, admiringly. "What a punch." He sat up straighter and picked up the binoculars from the dashboard. He peered through them. "Hey, that's her!"

"Her who?"

"The one with the legs," he said. He handed the binoculars to Huey.

He focused them on the long-legged woman in the fur jacket he had admired earlier. A guy was leading her by the hand. He did a double take. "That's Bobby Vitale."

Guardino made a face. "She can do better."

Huey's cell phone rang. He handed the binoculars to Guardino as he fumbled it out of his pocket.

"Yeah," he answered. "We see him. Thanks, Reg." He hung up.

"They're not going to the parking lot."

"I can see that."

They watched as Vitale and the woman walked down the pier. It was slow going as they stopped every few steps to kiss or for Bobby to grab her ass. But, it was clear that their destination was the warehouse at the end of the wharf. Huey and Guardino reached for their door handles at the same time. They made their way to the end of the storage containers and peered around them for a closer view.

To their surprise, they did not approach the main entrance of the warehouse. Rather, Vitale led the woman to the back end, the side closest to the detectives. He put his fingers to his lips, then fumbled in his pockets. It was obvious that he had been drinking.

Huey and Guardino exchanged glances.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Huey asked.

"That Bobby Vitale is gonna get laid?"

"That, and there's a back entrance to this place!"

"Yeah."

"Think we should call it in?"

Huey looked at him. "And say what? She seems willing. That's not a crime."

He shrugged. "It oughta be. A weasel like him with a looker like her."

"I'm going to talk to Reg. See if he knows anything about her. Keep an eye out."

"OK, Jack," Guardino said. He blew on his hands to warm them. He'd left his gloves in the car. They had learned something new, at least, other than Bobby getting lucky. They hadn't known there was a back entrance to the warehouse. Bobby was doing an end run around the night watch in the front, obviously seeking some privacy for his intended assignation. Louis couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen the woman before. She was too far away to get a good look at her face. But something about her was familiar. Maybe one of the call girls he used to know when he worked Vice? One of the higher priced ones. She sure was a beauty. Much too fine for a punk like Bobby Vitale.

On the pier, Meg quelled her impatience as Bobby patted each of his pockets and fumbled in his jeans for the key. Now that access to the warehouse was finally assured, she was eager to get inside and see what she could see. Eager, yet at the same time, filled with a sense of dread. Surely, he wouldn't be so willing to show her this place if there were prisoners inside? And if Fraser and Vecchio weren't inside ... where were they?

With a little cry of triumph, Bobby finally removed a ring of keys from an inside pocket of his jacket. Holding them carefully so they didn't jangle, he fitted one of the keys into a lock she couldn't see and opened a narrow wooden door. He stepped through, pulling her by the hand. He left the door slightly ajar so that the pier's lights provided some illumination on the passage. It opened on to a short, steep stairway. Meg smelled lake water and damp wood. Slipping her heels off, she followed him up the stairs. It was dark at the top, until he carefully pushed up on a panel above his head. A small trap door opened in the floor of the warehouse, just wide enough for one person to climb through. More light spilled into the stairwell. He poked his head up and looked around, cautiously. Satisfied, he quietly lowered the hatch door to the floor and climbed out. Crouching, he reached down and helped her up. He scuttled to a nearby stack of wooden crates, with Meg on his heels.

He put his arms around her and nuzzled her neck. "You got me so hot, baby." He fumbled at her jacket.

She pulled away. "What are we doing here, Bobby?"

"Shhhh! You wanted to see."

"See what? I can barely see you!" There were lights on inside the warehouse, but they were obviously on night mode. In the distance, a glass fronted office was elevated, up in a corner of a loft. It was brightly lit, and she saw a man sitting at a desk in there, his chin resting on his chest. She looked away, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. They were in a large open room, crowded with stacks of boxes, crates, and barrels. Forklifts, pallette jacks, tools, ropes and other equipment were neatly arranged around the edges. It looked exactly like what one would expect in a working warehouse on a pier. She wondered what she was looking for and whether she would know it if she found it. She looked at the crate she was leaning against. Stenciled on its side was, "Canned peaches in heavy syrup." Her heart sank. She didn't know what she expected, but it wasn't fruit.

Still crouching, Bobby darted to a nearby toolbench. He returned with a flashlight. He knelt beside her and pulled her to him. She resisted his kisses, saying, "Bobby! Wait!"

He pulled back. "What for?"

"You were going to show me where ..." she ducked her head, so that his kiss landed in her hair.

"You're practically sitting on it," he said, his voice husky.

"On what?"

"The spot, baby. The spot."

She looked down, then back at him skeptically. "Ri-ight."

He turned the flashlight on and carefully shielded the beam. He shone it on the floor. Thatcher could make out a groove in what she had presumed was a solid floor. She ran a finger in it, straining to see how far it extended. She looked back at him. "I don't know what I'm looking at."

"It's a trap door," he explained. "We use it for loading and unloading the barges. With that winch." He pointed up. Meg could make out a dangling piece of equipment high up near the rafters. "Boxes, crates, barrels, you name it."

"Bodies?" she whispered, with a shudder. That wasn't an act. She felt sick at the thought.

He pulled her closer and snickered. "Yeah." He pointed to the middle of the floor. "See, you get em talking, yadda, yadda, yadda, get em to stand right over there." He kissed her. "Then, you plug 'em." He kissed her again. "Then, you push that red button," he pointed to the wall behind her. "And bam! Down they go, right in to the barge. Easy-peasey."

Meg felt a tightness in her chest. The unwelcome image of the lifeless bodies of Fraser and Vecchio dropping through the trapdoor, like so much refuse, crowded her thoughts. She pushed it away. "And you did that?"

"Sure, baby," he nuzzled her again, and moved his hands under her coat. "That's my job. A part of it, anyway."

"Why?"

"Mmmmmm?"

She left a trail of kisses up and down his neck, then nuzzled his ear lobe. "These two guys. Who were they?"

"I can't tell you that, Meg," he said, kissing her.

"But, what had they done?"

"Pissed off the Boss," he said. "You don't ever wanna piss off the Boss. They got off easy."

"What happened to them?" she asked, sliding a hand inside his coat and undoing the top button of his shirt. "You know, after?"

"Burial at sea," he whispered, then pushed her down on the floor, fumbling at the zipper of his jeans.

She pushed him away. "Not here, Bobby!" She gestured to the lit office. "What if he sees?"

"It's just Angelo. He can sleep through anything."

"I can't, Bobby. Not here. It's too exposed." She squirmed away.

He grabbed her arm. "I like being exposed."

She struggled against him. "Maybe you do, but I can't relax with Angelo sitting there. If I can't relax, I can't enjoy myself." She gave him a smoldering look. "And I do so want to enjoy myself."

"OK, baby." He looked around. "Over there," he said. Still crouching, he pulled her with him near the wall, to where a set of barrels were stacked. Between the barrels and the wall, there was a narrow open space. He handed her the flashlight, then took his jacket off and spread it on the floor, like a low rent Sir Walter Raleigh.

She turned the flashlight on, ostensibly to help him with his task. As he turned back to her, she shrugged out of her fur jacket and handed it to him. "That'll be a little more comfy."

He grinned and spread it out, fussing over the makeshift bed. She took advantage of his distraction to shine the light on to the barrels. There were letters stenciled on the barrel – C.C.C. – and other manufacturer's marks that she instantly recognized. She quickly scanned a couple of the barrels, confirming a suspicion. They were all the same.

Bobby lay down on the coats. He grabbed her hand and pulled her down to lie next to him. She turned off the flashlight, her mind racing.

"This is cozy," she said, into his ear.

He pulled her head towards him for a kiss. As he deepened the kiss, she did her best to play along. It worked better than she anticipated. He scrabbled at the bosom of her dress, hurting her in his eagerness.

"Slow down, honey," she whispered in his ear. She pushed his hands away, and pushed him back flat. "Let me do this," she said, seductively. She proceeded to strip him slowly, kissing and fondling him as she did so, but not letting him touch her. She fumbled with the buckles as she removed the shoulder holster with the gun in it. He tried to help her, but she wouldn't let him. She set the holster with the gun still in it on top of a barrel, then kissed him deeply. When he was completely naked, she rose to her feet.

"Where you going?" he said, huskily.

"Nowhere," she said, moving sensuously to a beat only she could hear. She did a seductive little dance, removing her hair clasp, necklace, bracelet and earrings in a slow striptease. She shook out her hair. He swallowed convulsively, the evidence of his arousal at full mast. Then, she reached for her purse, where she had left it on the barrel next to his holster.

"Hey, I got protection," he said. "In my wallet." He gestured to his jeans where they lay on the floor.

She removed her hand from the purse. She was holding a pair of handcuffs. She dangled them at him. "Put these on," she whispered.

Bobby took a look at them, then grinned wolfishly. "Why didn't you say you were into this? Or maybe, I shoulda guessed. " He quickly put on the fur-lined cuffs and clicked them shut. "I'm up for it," he said, slyly, gyrating his hips.

Meg stifled a disgusted look, and smiled back. "Close your eyes, and count to ten, Bobby. I have a surprise for you."

"OK," he said, closing his eyes. "One ... two ... "

She scooped up his holstered gun, her purse and shoes, and tiptoed away as he counted aloud. Then, she ran on bare feet for the small doorway they had entered. She heard him stop counting. She quickened her pace. Just as she neared the door, he tackled her. She fell hard on the wooden floor, the breath knocked out of her, his gun trapped beneath her. His naked body pressed down on her, making it hard to breathe.

He snarled into her ear. "I don't like surprises, Meg."

She had no breath to speak, but struggled beneath him.

"Go ahead, Meg. Give me a fight. I like that."

At that, she stilled. There was no point in wasting her strength, struggling from this position. He had all the leverage. He clamped his cuffed hands around her neck and pulled her up to her knees. Then, he snatched the holster from her and removed the gun with one smooth motion. He flicked the safety off and pointed it at her.

She stayed absolutely still. She moved her eyes up to his and smiled apologetically, "I'm sorry, Bobby. I changed my mind."

"You don't get to change your mind, baby." He gestured to the handcuffs. "Where's the key?"

"In my bag," she said, meekly.

"Open it," he said, tightening his grip on the gun. "Slowly. No tricks."

She did, and held it open so he could see the innocuous contents.

"OK, take out the key." Then, holding the gun against her forehead, finger on the trigger, he held out his hands. "Unlock me."

She did. He gave her no opportunity to disarm him. "Put them on yourself," he ordered. She complied. "Tighter," he said. She obeyed. He held on to the key.

"OK, Meg," he said, keeping the gun on her as he stroked her hair. "Let's go back to our little nest and continue where we left off."

Her mind was racing. She could scream, waking Angelo. But what would that accomplish? He wouldn't help her, and two men would put her at an even greater disadvantage. Bobby gestured with the gun. She got to her feet and trudged back toward the barrels, trying to look defeated. Her best bet was to cooperate until an opportunity presented itself. She would wait for that opportunity. Or make it. No matter what it took.

"You sure are easy to talk to," he said, with cold amusement. "I hope you're worth all the trouble you caused."

"Let's just get this over with," she said, dully.

"Oh, I think you'll want to make it last, baby," he said, in a grotesquely lascivious tone. Then added, "I won't hurt you, Meg," he said, huskily. "It'll be quick."

And with that, she knew that he would rape her, kill her, and dispose of her body in the Lake. He was uneducated, uncouth and a slave to his hormones, but not completely stupid. He had realized how much he had let slip while she was seducing him, and regretted it.

They had reached the nest of jackets. She steeled herself, ready to make a play but he anticipated her. He punched her in the back of the head, stunning her. She fell to her knees, ripping her pantyhose on the rough flooring and scraping her knee. He was on top of her before she could recover. He kept the gun pressed to her head, and ripped the front of her dress with his other hand. He was scrabbling for the top of her pantyhose, when she head butted him. At that, he slapped the gun against her temple, and she went limp. Dimly, she was aware of his hands at her waist. She sunk her teeth into his earlobe. With a roar, he cuffed her. The next thing she knew, he had one hand pressed against her throat as the other was pushing her legs apart. She couldn't breathe or make a sound. She struggled, trying to buck him off, but her strength was failing. She was starting to gray out at the edges of her vision, when several things happened at once: Bobby screamed; the pressure on her throat eased; the weight of his body on top of her was gone. She scrabbled backward, gasping for breath. Her vision cleared after a moment.

Bobby lay on his back, naked and still, his hands held out in supplication. Diefenbaker had his jaws clamped around his throat. He was growling, the noise a counterpoint to Bobby's whimpering. Meg shook herself out of her paralysis, snatched up Bobby's gun from where it lay on the floor, and pointed it at the supine man.

"Let him go, Diefenbaker," she croaked, then swallowed painfully. The wolf didn't move. She moved on her knees so that he could see her face. He kept his grip on Bobby's throat, but his eyes turned up to look at her. She spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully. "Diefenbaker. Let him go."

He whined as if arguing with her, then let go. He moved back, snarling. Bobby sobbed once, then put a hand to his throat and the other to his groin. He backed up against a barrel.

"Watch him," she told the wolf. "If he makes a move, rip his balls off."

Dief growled louder, then licked his chops. Bobby cringed.

Meg peeked out from over the barrels. Angelo in his elevated office hadn't stirred. She heaved a sigh of relief, then turned her attention to the scene before her. All the fight had gone out of Bobby. He sat there, both hands covering his groin, staring fearfully at Dief. She found the key to the cuffs and freed her hands. She put them on Bobby, who meekly held out his hands, then returned them to cover his private parts. She gathered her jewelry and shoes, and shoved them into her purse. She donned her fur jacket and pulled it close around her, hiding the ripped bodice of the dress. She dropped Bobby's gun into the jacket pocket.

"The wolf and I are leaving now, Bobby. Be a good boy and don't move until we're gone." He nodded vigorously.

Meg and Dief backed away slowly, until they got to the small stairwell. She went first, then the wolf picked his way down. When she got out on to the pier, she pushed the door shut. She heard it latch. She put the gun in the pocket of her jacket. Then, she put on her shoes. She wobbled a bit on rubbery knees, but soon got her bearings. Dief stayed close. She took a few experimental steps, then continued away from the warehouse. She did not want to go back to the bar. She headed for a collection of big shipping containers that were stacked haphazardly in a yard. She and the wolf could navigate from there back to Turnbull and the car. Diefenbaker would know the way. She hadn't gone very far when two men came out of the shadows toward her. She stopped abruptly, tightening her grip on the gun in her pocket. Then, Diefenbaker woofed in a friendly fashion.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" said a familiar voice.

She squinted, trying to make out his face. "Detective Huey?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, clearly puzzled that she knew him. He was also peering at her.

"It's the Dragon Lady!" Guardino blurted, in astonishment. "I mean, Inspector Thatcher."

She glared at him, but continued walking. They met her halfway.

"Are you all right?" Huey repeated. Her hair was a mess, her lipstick was smeared, and there was a big hole in her stocking. When she had entered the warehouse with Bobby forty minutes ago, he and Louis had returned to the car. Nothing else had happened until Diefenbaker had appeared out of nowhere and sniffed his way down the dock. He had nosed open the side door that Bobby had left slightly ajar and darted inside.

"I'm fine," she said, curtly. She clutched her jacket close. Then, she said, "Thank you for your concern."

"Sure," he said. It was obvious that he was curious. They both were. But her stern demeanor stifled the questions that were on their lips.

"We need to talk. Do you have a car here?"

"Yeah," Guardino said, motioning to an opening in the containers. "Right over here."

They walked to the car together, the detectives slowing their pace to match her high-heeled gait. Guardino held the rear door open. Diefenbaker jumped in and Thatcher joined him.

The detectives exchanged glances, and got in the front. Huey started the engine and got the heater going.

Thatcher spoke first. "I am not quite sure of your procedure, Detectives. As the highest ranking official of the Canadian government in Chicago, I wish to swear out a complaint." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "There is a large quantity of Canadian whiskey inside that warehouse which has been brought into this country illegally."

They exchanged glances. "We'd have to run this by the Lieutenant, ma'am."

She nodded, expecting as much. She took a deep breath before proceeding. "Furthermore, I have reason to believe that this warehouse is a crime scene. Homicide." She proceeded to tell them what Bobby had said, and explained about the trap door drop into the barge. She didn't need to spell out the implications for them. She removed the gun from her pocket, and dropped it into the evidence bag that Guardino held open for her.

"You're willing to testify to what he told you, Inspector?" Huey asked, grimly.

"Yes."

Guardino looked worriedly over his shoulder. "You remember what Elaine said about the Nardo family being the owners of the warehouse?"

"Yes."

"And you're sure you want to testify?" Huey asked.

"Of course, I'm sure," she retorted. "End of discussion, Detectives."

Huey picked up the radio. Thatcher sat back in her seat and closed her eyes. She thought of the note that Fraser sent her via the wolf. The words took on new meaning in the aftermath of Bobby's braggadocio. Had that been her deputy's dying words, scrawled with the last of his strength? She started to shake. Diefenbaker laid his head in her lap and whined, until she gently stroked his fur. Gradually, the tremors stopped. She continued to pet him until the relief car arrived. Guardino spoke to the detectives inside, before getting back in the car.

"Johnson and Wizowski will stay on watch here, Inspector, until we get things arranged back at the station."

"But, if Bobby leaves –"

"They'll arrest him, and anybody else, as a material witness if they set foot outside of that warehouse," he assured her.

She considered this. "Very well," she said. As they pulled away from the wharf, she directed Huey to drive to where Turnbull was waiting with the Consular car. As they pulled alongside the vehicle, he stepped out. Huey rolled the window down.

"Detective Huey! What are you doing here" he asked worriedly, leaning into the window. He spotted Thatcher in the back. "Inspector!" His worried expression changed to relief. "Diefenbaker!"

"We're taking Inspector Thatcher back to the station to make a statement," Huey explained.

"No," she interjected. "Constable Turnbull and I will meet you there in a half hour, Detective."

They protested, but she was firm. When she pointed out that it would take the Lieutenant a while to arrange things, they relented. Turnbull opened the door of the detectives' car and helped her out.

"Thank you, Detectives," she said, with finality. They drove away.

Turnbull opened the rear door of the car and stood at attention. She and Dief climbed in. He slid behind the wheel. He started the engine and peered into the rearview mirror.

"Ma'am?" He had to repeat himself before she acknowledged him.

"Yes, Constable?"

"Where to, ma'am?"

"My apartment."

He nodded and put the car in gear. They drove in silence. He kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror. She was silent for the entire ride, but she kept her arm around Diefenbaker's neck. When they arrived at her apartment, she told her junior officer to wait, but took the wolf with her. Ten minutes later, she was back, wearing a topcoat over a tailored pantsuit, sensible shoes, and a silk scarf knotted around her neck. Her hair was returned to its usual style, as was her makeup.

She climbed in. "27th Precinct, Turnbull."

"Yes, ma'am."

Diefenbaker sat close. Again, she was silent on the ride. As he parked outside the station, she cleared her throat, painfully. "You sent the wolf?"

Turnbull braced himself for a reprimand and indefinite assignment to sentry duty. "Yes, ma'am. I waited the four hours, as you said."

"Thank you," she said. "He was ... helpful."

Turnbull beamed. "I did call Lieutenant Welsh as you instructed, ma'am, but he was not on duty."

"Probably in bed," she said, tiredly.

He nodded. "I gave the dispatcher my name and your mobile number." He handed her the phone. "He has not yet called back, ma'am."

She looked up at the station house. She felt a strange reluctance to step out of the car and nearly ordered Turnbull to floor it, to drive her far, far away from the realities that were awaiting her up in the squad room. She shook her head, sharply. It was time. She met his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"I am afraid I have disturbing news, Constable. Very disturbing." She saw his expression change as the young officer looked back at her. "Constable Fraser is dead," she said, as gently as she could.

Beside her, Diefenbaker threw his head back and howled.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

"Thanks," Fraser said, as he accepted another pine bough that Ray handed in to him. He was on his hands and knees inside the 'fallen tree' shelter. The simple structure consisted of a small evergreen bent down to the ground, its trunk nearly severed despite his very dull knife. He had scooped out the snow under the tree, packed it around the edges and was now lining the 'floor' with evergreen branches. He took a deep breath, enjoying the fragrance of Eastern white pine.

Ray sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He tugged his scarf higher, covering his nose and mouth. He handed the last bough in to Fraser. "I'll cut some more."

Fraser crawled out from under. "No, that should do it, Ray." He stretched his cramped muscles and looked with approval at their handiwork. The trunk was bent over and cinched into place with rope and rocks, leaving a small sheltering space under its branches.

"Don't we need another shelter?" Ray asked.

"No, the one is sufficient."

Ray eyed it critically. "You sure that's big enough for two people?"

"It'll be snug, Ray. But, you don't want a shelter that's too large. Our combined body heat would be wasted trying to warm up a bigger space." He stretched again, then said, "We should get some rest."

"I want some hot chocolate, first."

"I'm sorry, Ray. We can't risk a fire."

"We don't need one, Benny." He moved to the snowmobiles which were parked on the side of the shelter. He lifted the hood of the black one, reached in to the engine compartment, and extracted a can. He stirred the melted snow and chocolate bar he had confiscated from Guy with the knife he had commandeered from Michel, then handed the can to Fraser.

He sniffed the contents, then took a tentative sip, taking care with the sharp edge of the can. It was, indeed, hot chocolate. It warmed both the belly and the spirit.

Ray removed a similar can from under the hood of his red vehicle. He smacked his lips, appreciatively. "A fine, fruity bouquet," he said, in an exaggerated tone of refinement. Indeed, the concoction did taste faintly of peaches.

"With a soupcon of pine resin," Fraser added, delicately plucking a pine needle from his lip. He finished his drink, tapping the bottom of the can to get the last few drops. "That was a treat, Ray. Thanks."

"I think I'm getting the hang of this camping out business," he said, proudly. He scooped up more snow into his empty can, packed it down tight, then set it back on the engine block. The engines were rapidly cooling, but there should be enough heat to melt one more canful. Fraser followed suit.

"How far did we get today, Benny?"

"Oh, only about forty miles. We should do better tomorrow."

They had only about an hour or two before sunset after their escape from the barge. While the snowmobiles had headlights, Fraser was leery of traveling on unfamiliar ground in the dark. Too many potential hazards to contend with. It was a calculated risk to stop for the night; their pursuers might not. Indeed, they might be quite familiar with the terrain around here. He reasoned, however, that they'd prefer daytime too, so as not to miss their tracks. Still, they had laid a couple of false trails before stopping to shelter. Ray had obliterated the real tracks, brushing them away while Fraser had felled the tree. They camouflaged the snowmobiles with a layer of evergreen boughs as further precaution. From a distance, their shelter looked like just another natural feature of the landscape.

Ray walked a considerate distance to a different tree and relieved himself. Fraser did the same. When they returned to the shelter, the snow in the cans had melted. They grabbed the meltwater and climbed in. It was a close fit, but no more than the crate had been. And it smelled a lot better.

Fraser lit a flashlight. Then, Ray pulled from his pockets the booty he had retrieved from the rear compartment of his snowmobile. Fraser's had been equipped with the same. Waterproof matches in a little tin cylinder, the stub of a candle, a compass, a whistle, and best of all, a silvery space blanket in a tiny plastic pouch. Fraser had called it an emergency blanket, but Ray thought of it as astronaut gear. He pulled it from its pouch, shook it out, and wrapped himself up. He was instantly warmer and said so.

"It reflects back 80% of your body heat, Ray," Fraser said as he wrapped himself up in his own silver shroud. "Or, if you turn it the other way, most of the sun's rays."

"Cool," he said, curling up on the pine-scented floor like a mummy. Not only did this shelter smell better than the crate, but they could actually lie down to sleep. It had been four days since he had been able to do that. He didn't count being knocked out under a pile of dead bodies. To Ray, this simple shelter felt as luxurious as the casino suite he had in Vegas once, his personal high water mark for the good life. He felt Fraser settle beside him, wrapped in his own space-age garb.

After a few minutes, Ray said, "Y'know, I wanted to be an astronaut."

"Really?"

"After my cowboy stage." He sniffed the pine scent that wafted up from the boughs. "My Pop was really into the NASA stuff." He snorted, "Mostly 'cause we were beating the Russians to the moon, I think." He paused, suddenly self-conscious. "I used to sit on his lap and watch the Apollo missions with him. I didn't really understand what was happening. I just ... wanted to be with him." He was silent for a moment. "I forgot about that," he murmured, then went on. "Remember the moon landing? Ma and Pop took us all over to my grandparents' house to watch it, 'cause they had a color TV." He chuckled. "The feed was in black and white anyway." He paused. "But, all the family was there, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. Everybody. Even Frannie, though she couldn't even have been much more than a year old." He trailed off, lost in memory.

Fraser's thoughts were far back in time, too. He had been living with his grandparents for less than a year. The Reverend had been fascinated by the space race and wanted his only grandchild to mark the historic event. Afterwards, they had set off a skyrocket in the yard in honor of the occasion, putting the French Houdans off laying for a week. Gran had pronounced it nonsense and a waste of taxpayer money that would be better spent on educating the poor, and busied herself in the kitchen, burning bannocks. Like Ray, Fraser had been too young to understood what it was all about, but the memory warmed him nonetheless.

"I listened to the landing with my grandfather," he offered.

Ray frowned. "Listened?"

"On CBC North."

"Huh?"

"Arctic radio."

"No TV? When did you get one?"

"We never did. No reception in the Arctic. At least, not then. Now, there are satellites." He paused in thought. "The first time I saw television was when I went to the Academy in Regina."

"Regina?"

"Saskatchewan."

"Bless you."

Fraser chuckled. "Didn't much care for it."

"Saskatchewan?"

"Gezundheit, Ray." He ignored Ray's groan, and continued, "No, I didn't like television," then added, "except for hockey, of course."

"Naturally," he said, sleepily.

"And curling."

He waited for Ray's customary jibe against the sport, but his friend was out, breathing deeply in a regular rhythm. Fraser pulled the space blanket closer and listened to the sounds of the night before he too tipped over the precipice into sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

"Repeat that, Detective, " Welsh said into the telephone, as he jotted notes on a pad. "Uh-huh. And the Forensics?" He looked grim, but continued writing. "Yes, I understand. You and Huey go home. It's been a long night. Yeah, you too." He returned the phone to its cradle and sat back in his chair.

Thatcher sat opposite his desk. She met Welsh's eyes. He seemed to have aged a decade since yesterday. Thatcher put a hand to her bruised throat. _Haven't we all?_

"That was Detective Guardino," he began, then cleared the huskiness from his throat. "The barrels of Canadian Club whiskey you identified have been confiscated by U.S. Customs. They confirmed your observation that there were no import or export stamps on them and agree with your conclusion that they were smuggled into this country illegally."

She nodded. Any rookie in the RCMP would have spotted the telltale Customs and Tax stamps, or lack thereof.

"A thorough search of the warehouse will take several days, but the prelim has turned up several keys of cocaine in a crate of canned peaches." He paused. "That alone makes this a major bust, Inspector. And, I suspect more contraband will come to light. Some very dirty scumbags are going down over this one. You should be proud."

"What about Forensics?" she said, impatiently.

Welsh drew a deep breath, then let it out. "Based on your information, the crime scene team concentrated on the big trap door. The results are preliminary, of course." He paused.

"Of course," she echoed.

"The warehouse floor had been cleaned and bleached pretty thoroughly. But they weren't so thorough on the groove that the trap door fits into. The team found traces of blood. Recent." He leaned forward. "Human. Two blood types. A negative and A positive."

She swallowed hard, then said, "Constable Fraser's blood type is A negative."

Welsh said, without expression, "And Detective Vecchio's is A positive."

They stared at each other. He broke the silence. "I'm so sorry, Meg," he said, gently.

"As am I, Harding."

There was a knock on the door. Welsh bade Elaine to enter. Like the Lieutenant, she was dressed casually, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, face scrubbed, no makeup. She carried a tray with a coffee pot, mugs, and the fixings.

"I thought you might like some coffee," she said, setting it on Welsh's desk. When she straightened, she saw their faces.

"What is it?" she asked. Her voice whistled in her suddenly dry throat.

"Sit down, Elaine," he said, kindly. She backed away, eyes wide. Thatcher rose and put an arm around her, escorting her to a chair. Elaine looked up at her, stricken.

Thatcher kept her arm around her as she spoke. "It appears that Constable Fraser and Detective Vecchio were shot in the warehouse on Wednesday night."

"Shot?"

"Killed." Meg barely got the word out.

Elaine stared at her for a long moment, then buried her face in her hands. Thatcher patted her back awkwardly, struggling to keep her own composure. Behind her, she heard Welsh blow his nose. After a minute, Elaine swiped brusquely at her eyes and looked up.

"I knew it. I was so afraid when they found the car ... but ... I hoped ... " She swallowed, and straightened her shoulders. "What should I do? There must be something ..." she trailed off. "I have to do something."

Welsh said, "Keep a lid on this for me. For now. I'll make an announcement to the squad in a few minutes. And, I'll need a press release for later. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, sir," she said, standing. She looked at Thatcher, and squeezed her hand briefly, before leaving the office.

Welsh watched her go, then poured coffee into two mugs. He opened a desk drawer and removed a small bottle of brandy. He poured a dollop into his mug, then raised his eyebrows inquiringly at Thatcher.

She nodded. He poured, then handed her the mug.

"Thank you," she said, taking a sip. It was early in the day for her. But, on the other hand, she had never gone to bed ...

They were silent as they sipped their drinks. A wave of sorrow swept over Welsh. Ray Vecchio was dead. One of his own. He had often wished that Veccho was more by-the-book, but on the whole, his stubborn, impassioned, infuriating approach had been an asset to his command. A good man. He would miss him. He was beginning to suspect that he would miss him more than he would ever have imagined.

He watched Thatcher over the rim of his cup. There were dark circles under her eyes, her voice was hoarse, and she looked weary beyond measure. He had tried to brace himself for the possibility that Vecchio and Fraser were dead when he had initially heard Huey's informant's tip, but he hadn't really believed it till now. This confirmation hit him like a ton of bricks. How much more difficult was it for the young commander to accept?

Welsh reached into his desk drawer and extracted a plastic evidence bag. He removed a piece of paper. He looked down at Fraser's note. Welsh had liked the young Mountie, despite his quirks. Or maybe, because of them. Life around here had become much more interesting when Fraser had teamed up with Vecchio. He suddenly realized that he had lost two officers tonight. Somewhere along the line, the Mountie had become one of his.

He removed the note from the bag and handed it to Thatcher. "Perhaps you'd like to keep this, Inspector?"

She looked at it. "Isn't this evidence?"

He shook his head. "It's not probative. And we don't need it."

She smoothed it out with her fingers, then folded it carefully and tucked it into a pocket of her suit. "Thank you."

Welsh sighed and looked at his watch. It was time. "I have to call upon the Veccho family." He looked at Thatcher. "Is there someone you need to call about Fraser?"

She looked bleakly at him, then shook her head. "He updated his NOK form a few months back. He named Detective Vecchio ... Ray ... as next of kin."

Welsh felt a prickling behind his eyes. "This is the part of the job I hate the most," he said, gruffly.

"I haven't ... that is ... " She cleared her throat. "I have never had to do that."

"It doesn't get any easier," he told her, then pushed himself away from the desk. He got to his feet, wearily.

"May I ... that is, would it be all right if I accompanied you?"

Welsh looked at her, surprised.

"Constable Fraser considered the Vecchios as family," she said, in explanation. "But, if you think it inappropriate –"

"No, of course not," he said, quickly. "I would be grateful for your company." He grabbed his coat, then helped her into hers. "But first, I have another duty to perform." He led the way out into the precinct. She stood stoically beside him as he made the announcement to his people. Amid the shocked looks, the gasps, the exclamations, and the tears, Thatcher met Elaine's dry eyes. She picked up the Stetson that was sitting on top of her desk, and handed it solemnly to Meg. With the hat in hand, she followed Welsh out of the grief-stricken room.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Ray opened his eyes. For a moment, he stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, wondering why it was green. And why it was so close to his face. And why it smelled like Pine-sol. He blinked and remembered.

He was in Canada.

"Fraser?" No answer. He rolled over. He was alone under the branch roof of the shelter. He wanted to settle back down into the warm nest of pine boughs where he was nice and toasty. But, with a sigh, he wriggled out of the space blanket and crawled out from under the tree. The sun was up, but low in the sky. He looked at his watch. 7:33.

Fraser was crouched beside a large, flat rock, with a smaller rock clutched in his hand. "Good morning, Ray! Sleep well?"

Ray grunted on principle. He _had _slept well. Surprisingly well. He didn't even feel stiff after sleeping on the ground. But he was not a morning person. And Fraser was the poster child for morning people. He refused to encourage him.

"Breakfast?" he asked, handing Ray a small bundle cut from a piece of tarpaulin.

Ray peered suspiciously at the green stuff and brown stuff, then perked up at the white stuff. "Pignoli?" He popped one into his mouth and bit down on the treat. The rich, resiny flavor filled his mouth. He loved pignoli, though he'd only ever had them from a jar. He had never really thought about where they came from as he noticed the pile of smashed pine cones by Fraser's feet. The rest of the nuts were gone in a heartbeat.

Fraser pointed. "That's lichen and that's Jerusalem artichoke."

"What? No grubs? No furry nightcrawlers?" He nibbled a bit of lichen. Not bad. A bit like spinach.

"I was saving those for dessert, Ray," he deadpanned. His lips quirked up at the reaction. "My apologies for the meager repast, but winter foraging takes a bit more time."

"Which we don't have," Ray said, finishing the meal. "Thanks." He crawled back into the shelter, gathered his space blanket and folded it as best he could, but he couldn't fit it back in the little pouch. It was like trying to refold a map. He rolled it up and stuffed it in his pocket.

When he climbed back out, Fraser said, "Stand back." Then, he knelt and cut the rope which held the tree down to the ground. It snapped back up, and wobbled back and forth a bit before coming to rest. Ray grinned at the miniature snowstorm created as the snow was shaken from its needles. It was like standing in a snow globe.

Ray walked away to the designated tree and used it for its designated purpose. As he walked back, he scooped snow in his gloved hand to wash down his breakfast.

"Stop, Ray!"

"What?"

Fraser strode to him. "Never, I mean, _never_ eat snow!"

"It's not yellow, Benny. I checked," he said, bringing the mound of snow to his mouth.

Fraser batted his hand down. Ray looked at him in surprise.

"Ray, eating snow out here can dangerously lower your core body temperature and lead to hypothermia." He unzipped his jacket and reached inside. "Here." He handed him a peach can which he had wrapped in plastic tarp and tied with a bit of rope so that it was tightly sealed. Ray unwrapped it. There was a small amount of water in it. "Melt it first."

He hesitated. "This is yours. You drink it."

"I've already had some. You take that and then you can start your own can." He added. "Don't put the metal directly on your skin."

Ray did as instructed. In short order, he had a small amount of meltwater in his own can, which he swallowed thirstily.

"It is important to keep hydrated, Ray. We'll have to keep melting snow throughout the day. We can use your engine method once we get going. But, hypothermia is the biggest killer out here."

"You mean, besides the angry men with guns?"

"Well, yes," he conceded.

They broke camp and took off on the snowmobiles. Ray followed Fraser over snow-covered hill and dale. Fraser was right. It was like riding a motorcycle. He quickly became proficient with the controls, and relaxed, taking in the scenery. Though still hungry, Ray felt refreshed after the sleep. The snowmobile surging beneath him, the crisp air, and the rugged beauty of the wilderness filled his senses. It was a crystalline moment in time and he felt marvelously alive.

They stopped to rest the machines and themselves. As they sipped meltwater, Ray said, "A little ways back, you pointed at something. On the right. Was that open water?"

"A pond. Rather a big one," he said. "Very dangerous, Ray."

"Why? I mean, it was frozen, right?"

Fraser nodded. "Ice is treacherous, Ray. It's easy to lose control of the machine, especially at speed." He sipped from his can. "And, you can't tell if the ice will hold you until it's too late. Especially, once you factor in that the average snowmobile weighs five hundred pounds."

"Oh," Ray said. "Got it. Stay off the ice."

Fraser finished his drink, scooped up another can of snow, and set it on the engine mount to melt. Suddenly, he snapped to full alertness.

"What?" Ray said, looking around anxiously.

Fraser waved him into silence. He cocked his head, and closed his eyes, his head turning slowly, side to side, like a radar tower. "I hear an engine."

"Where?" Ray was straining, but he heard nothing. He didn't argue, though. He had come to appreciate Fraser's freakily acute hearing a long time ago.

He pointed to the northeast, the direction they had been traveling. There was nothing to see. But, the terrain was not flat. It rose and fell in little peaks and valleys of snow, with rocks and trees here and there that interfered with the line of sight.

"It could be friendlies," Fraser ventured.

"Or it might not." Ray looked grimly at the tracks left in the snow by the Arctic Cats' treads. Even he could follow that trail.

"How do you want to play this?"

Fraser scanned the area. "Follow me to those rocks." He pointed to a big jumble of boulders a short distance ahead. "Then, you take cover, there. I'll reconnoiter. If it's trouble –"

"I'll have your back," he finished, grimly.

When they got to the rockpile, Ray veered off. Fraser continued cruising. Ray concealed his machine behind the boulders, then climbed up for a better view. Fraser was proceeding cautiously. The vantage from the high point was better than ground level. Ray pulled out his gun and flicked the safety off. He watched as the black snowmobile rose and dipped in the undulations of the snowfield.

Fraser was out of sight down in a swale when Ray saw it. A yellow snowmobile crested a mound of snow in the opposite direction. At first, he was relieved. One guy dressed in a neon yellow snowsuit that matched the vehicle. Probably a sportsman out for a jaunt, especially in that getup. Fraser could flag him down, get directions to the nearest town. His relief was short-lived as three other snowmobiles rose up out of a swale in the yellow one's wake. They looked like a squadron in fighting formation.

Ray lifted his gun, then hesitated. He was out of range. And, the shot, even if heard by Fraser over the noise of the engine, was as likely to distract as to warn. He bit his lip and watched in silence as Fraser's vehicle rose up on a crest of snow in full view of the approaching men. Everybody stopped and stared. Fraser recovered first. Swinging his snowmobile sharply to the left, he sped away. The man on the yellow machine stood up on the foot platforms and gesticulated to his men; clearly, he was in charge. Even at this distance, Ray could tell from the decisive body language that it was Jean, despite the snowsuit and helmet. Then, he twisted the throttle and lit out after Fraser. His men followed. The chase was on.

Ray watched in open-mouthed admiration as Fraser took evasive action. Unfortunately, even he could see that Jean was as expert as Fraser with the machine. He kept on his tail, skirting rocks and hillocks, ducking under low hanging branches, turning on a dime. It reminded Ray of something. It took him a minute, but it came to him - every dogfight scene in every old movie he had ever seen about WWI. The other men made a poorer showing, falling behind. But even with his circuitous route designed to shake them up, Fraser was leading them back into Ray's range. He nervously checked his gun and found a spot where he could steady his arm while taking aim at a moving target.

Fraser led his pursuers into a field of lumpy snow. Moguls, Ray thought, remembering the skiing terminology. They reminded him of waves, frozen in the act of cresting. Fraser had avoided that field on their outward journey, but now used it to his advantage. His snowmobile flew from mound to mound like a skipping stone. He expertly launched off the tip of one mound, went airborne, and landed on the next. Ray shook his head in admiration. He was poetry in motion. The men following him, not so much. They were shuddering and juddering along, obviously having trouble keeping control of their machines. Even Jean, though he did better than the others. One man fell off, his snowmobile going on without him for a bit before falling over. It was the big man, Guy. The other two wobbled to a stop. Jean had had enough. He rode to the top of a mogul, and pulled up short. He removed a shotgun from a side mount on the machine and took aim.

"Fraser!" Ray yelled, but he was too far away to be heard.

Jean fired as the black snowmobile crested another mogul. The shot caught the front of the machine, damaging the left ski. It landed, unbalanced and crippled, rolling over and over, Fraser with it. When it finally stopped, he was pinned underneath it. Ray leapt to his feet, cupping his hands around his eyes, straining to see. Jean signaled a halt.

Time stopped.

Fraser wasn't moving.

The black snowmobile coughed, sputtered, and died creating an eerie silence.

Fraser still didn't move.

Before he even realized he was going to do it, Ray lifted his gun in the air and fired a shot. Four heads swivelled in his direction. He took aim and fired at the closest man. He didn't hit him, of course. They were still out of range. But, the man still ducked. Ray laughed as loudly as he could, then raised his arm in the crude French gesture he had seen Guy use at the dock. As before, they went nuts. Jean shouted at his men who eagerly turned their machines around. He stayed there, calmly reloading his weapon. Ray cast one last desperate look at Fraser. He still hadn't moved. Ray jumped from the rocks and ran to his snowmobile. He pulled out from behind the pile of boulders, making sure he was visible to his pursuers. Then, he pushed the throttle up and sped back the way he and Fraser had come that morning. He risked one glance over his shoulder. Three of them were on his tail.

Luring them away was the only thing he could do to help his friend now.

Ray was no snowmobile ace and knew it. He kept to as straight a line as he could, avoiding the obstacles, following in the tracks they had laid that morning. He kept the speed as high as he dared, egging the men on behind him to do the same. His eyes scanned the horizon. He was praying that he had kept his bearings. Surely, he should have reached it by now. With growing dismay, he realized that the snow-covered landscape must have deceived him. He had missed his chance. Then, suddenly, he saw the pond. If Fraser hadn't pointed it out earlier, Ray would have thought it was just another snowy field. He veered toward it, glancing over his shoulder. He yelped as he saw how close his pursuers were. He goosed the throttle and slid on to the snow-covered ice. He almost lost control as the belt under the machine skidded on the slickness under the crust of snow. He throttled down slightly until he regained a semblance of control.

His pursuers followed him on to the frozen water. Ray grinned evilly, remembering Fraser's warning. He was too busy and too scared to do the math, but four men and four snowmobiles had to weigh – well, a lot, especially with Guy among them. Then, he heard the sound he had hoped for. Like fabric ripping. The ice broke under him. Ray instantly goosed the throttle up as high as it would go. His red snowmobile leapt forward like a racehorse out of the gate. It churned water, breaking the edge of the ice in its path. Ray was flying, putting out a rooster tail ten feet long. He shouted in equal parts fear and exhilaration. The screams of the men behind him were just barely audible over the noise. He leaned over the handlebars, his hand gripping the throttle like a vise.

"I'm gonna make it," Ray muttered, through clenched teeth. "I'm gonna make it!' The opposite shore was close! Just a little farther! Then, the machine got caught up on a chunk of ice and lost its forward momentum. He barely had time to let go of the handlebars before it sank like a stone beneath him.

The cold water cut through Ray's clothes like a knife. His lungs contracted and he gasped. He tried to swim toward the unbroken edge of the ice, but managed only to flail. Still, he got close enough to the edge to grab it with freezing fingers. He tried to pull himself up on to the ice shelf, but the edge kept crumbling beneath him. After several futile, utterly exhausting attempts, he just hung on. He looked over his shoulder. Two helmeted heads bobbed and thrashed in the middle of the pond. The third man was nowhere in sight. Ray didn't understand their language, but he knew what "Mon Dieu" meant. He shut his ears to the sound of two men drowning, and concentrated on hanging on. After a while, the voices stopped. The silence was eerie, the only sound the lapping of the water. Even that faded away, as the disturbed pond settled.

_I'm going to die here. _That thought triggered a panicked effort to lift himself on to the ice, but again and again, it broke up under his weight. The frustrating struggle weakened him. He stopped and hung on, pulling his knees up to his belly in a desperate attempt to retain body heat.

Maybe he should just let go. Get this over with. End the torment of cramping muscles and gasping lungs. But something deep inside Ray would not let him. If he was going to die, then the cold water would have to do it on its own. He wouldn't help it. In fact, if he was gonna die, he wanted to yell and scream against it. He would not go gentle into ... wherever it is you went. But, all he could manage was a feeble curse. The cold water was sapping his strength, slowing his thoughts. All of his energy was devoted to hanging on to the ice.

He thought of Benny, probably lying dead in the snow. Paradoxically, he hoped his friend _had_ gone gentle, that he remained unconscious when Jean blew him away. This waiting around to die was for the birds. He smiled weakly, despite his misery. At least, Benny had had a wild ride on an Arctic Cat 3000 before the end. The way his friend had rubbed a hand along the gleaming hood. It was true love. Even Ray could see she was a beauty. He tried to purse shaking lips and make a wolf-whistle, but failed.

Wait a minute! Tightening his grip on the ice with his left hand, Ray

reached into the pocket of his coat with his right. His numb fingers were difficult to operate. But he finally managed to grab the metal whistle. He shoved it to his mouth, then nearly dropped it as it bounced off the visor. He'd forgotten about the helmet. With a great effort, he pushed the visor up and put the whistle in his mouth. Then, he gripped the ice with both hands and blew as hard as he could. The sound was so loud and so shrill that Ray imagined it could be heard in Chicago. He hoped so. He blew the whistle over and over, his thoughts on Ma and Frannie, Maria and the kids, Angie and Louise, Elaine and the Lieutenant, and the rest of the squad room. The blasts grew weaker and weaker as his strength failed. But he drew a measure of comfort that he was going out doing something, anything, no matter how small or futile, even though no one would ever know.

He blew the whistle until he had no breath to continue. He spat it out on the ice, then rested his helmet against the edge. This couldn't last much longer. Then, he heard it. The distant sound of an engine. He looked up sharply, then jammed the whistle between his lips with shaking fingers and blew like Gabriel at the Second Coming. Ray's existence, all of his 33 years on this earth, came down to one purpose and one purpose only - to blow a tin whistle. It was getting hard to think, grip the ice, hold his head up, even keep his eyes open, but he blew that whistle.

As Ray paused for breath, he heard the engine again. Louder now. He forced his head up. A snowmobile sluiced to a stop at the edge of the pond in front of him. Ray tried to focus, but all he could make out was its neon yellow color. He blinked hard several times. That color was significant for some reason but he couldn't remember why. Then, it came to him. The glimmer of hope - that Fraser had somehow survived Jean's shotgun and had come for him - died. Ray almost let go in his despair, to sink beneath the surface and have done with it. Instead, he defiantly blew his whistle one last time.

A dark figure leapt off the yellow snowmobile. "Ray," it yelled. "Ray!" The man's voice was muffled with the helmet's visor down, but Ray heard him clearly. That threw him. He didn't know how Jean would know his name. It didn't really matter, though. Nothing mattered. Ray watched dully as Jean tied one end of a rope to a huge boulder on the side of the pond, and the other to his waist. Then, he slid on his belly out on to the ice, shouting, "Hold on, Ray! Hold on!"

Ray wondered idly why Jean didn't just blast him with the shotgun, then decided the man didn't want to waste the shells. The French were supposed to be thrifty, right? No, wait, that was the Scots. But, Jean wasn't French. He was a Canadian. And not a very polite one. No, he probably just wanted to pry Ray's fingers off the ice, one by one, gloating the whole time, until he sank beneath the surface. Ray heard the ice beneath Jean crack as he wriggled out to him. He wanted to laugh. If Jean fell in, then all of them would be entombed till Spring thaw. But he was too tired to even chuckle. Besides, it wasn't _all _of them. Poor Fraser wasn't here. He was out there, lying all alone, dead in the snow. Benny loved the snow, though, so maybe he didn't mind.

Ray realized he still had the whistle in his mouth. For some reason, that bothered him. He didn't want to die with a whistle in his mouth, especially in front of Jean. It was ... undignified. He tried to spit it out, but the metal was frozen to his lip. He concentrated on dislodging it, ignoring Jean's exhortations to grab his hand. It was easy to tune him out. In fact, it was getting easier to tune everything out - the pain of cramping muscles, the cold burning his fingers, even the stupid whistle - when he heard something that shocked him into semi-awareness.

"God_dam_ it, Ray! Leave the whistle be and grab my hands! Now!" That ragged voice of desperation slashed through Ray's befuddlement. Or maybe it was the shock of hearing Benton Fraser swear.

"B-b-b-b-en-n-n-y?" Ray stuttered, a little whistle at the end of each syllable adding a forlorn whippoorwill-like note to the name.

"Yes, Ray! It's me! Now, grab my hands!"

Ray made one more effort to dislodge the whistle, then devoted the same energy to letting go of the ice with his right hand and thrusting it forward.

"I got you!" Fraser said, triumphantly. "Now the other one! That's it!" He inched backwards, slowly pulling Ray out of the water. The edges of the ice crumbled at first, but held fast as they got closer to shore. Ray was halfway out of the water when he heard another ominous cracking sound below. Then, his legs were out of the water. Fraser slowly dragged him up to the solid ice at the shoreline, then on to the snow covered ground. Ray lay there, shivering so hard, he was sure he would fly apart. He tried to speak, to warn Fraser to look out, stand back, but he couldn't get any breath. Even if he could, his teeth were chattering too badly. Added to the misery of the cold, the cramping muscles, the shivering, and the wet, was that damn whistle still flapping around on his twisting lips.

"Wh- wh- wh- " he thought of pushing the whistle off with his tongue, but he was afraid he'd bite it off.

"Don't try to talk, Ray," Fraser said. He had dragged Ray close to the snowmobile. "Just stay with me." He kept up a running patter, but things were pretty hazy at that point and Ray wasn't tracking very well. All he could think about was the whistle. He kept fading in and out. When he next became aware, Fraser was stripping him out of his wet clothes in quick, gentle movements. The whistle was gone. He was so grateful for that, he could feel tears forming, and had to turn his head away. At one point, he shivered so hard that his knee clocked Fraser in the chin hard enough to rattle his teeth. He tried to apologize but only a long sibilant "s" came out and he faded away again. When next he tuned in, Fraser was putting dry socks on his feet. When that was done, the Mountie sat down heavily in the snow, as if his legs would no longer hold him. He rested his helmeted head on his knees. Ray noticed that Fraser was clad only in his red longjohns and boots. He looked down at himself. The dry clothes were Benny's clothes. Ray wanted to thank him, but all he could do was shiver.

After a few minutes, Fraser lifted his head and flipped his visor up. "Ray, I'm going to put you on the snowmobile. All you have to do is hang on to me. Do you think you could do that?"

Ray nodded, though it was indistinguishable from the violent tremors that were convulsing him.

Fraser pulled him to his feet. Ray tried to help, but Fraser was supporting virtually all of his weight. He perched on the snowmobile seat, while Fraser scooped up his wet clothes and shoved them into the rear compartment. Then, he climbed on.

"Put your arms around me, Ray," he said. "That's right. I'll go slow, but you hold on as tight as you can."

Ray leaned against Fraser's warm, broad red flannel back and locked his arms around his waist. Even though he was in dry clothes, and sheltered behind his friend, the ride made him even colder. He concentrated on holding on until they came to a stop. After that, everything was a blur and Ray was gone for a long time.

When next he was aware, he was warm. Delightfully, deliciously, decadently warm. It took some effort, but he managed to open one eye. He blinked it once, twice, three times. There was a campfire burning merrily, just beyond his feet. He got the other eye open and took stock. Firelight reflected off the space blanket that covered him. He pushed it down to his waist and saw that he was clad in a neon yellow parka. The hood was pulled up and over his head. His hands were encased in bulky yellow mittens. He tentatively pulled the right mitten off and counted. One, two, three, four, five. Then, the other glove - six, seven, eight, nine, ten. The tips tingled a bit, but all his fingers were there. He needed to check his toes. He pushed the blanket off and sat up. He stared down at a hole in the yellow parka. Ray pushed a finger through the hole, and touched his bare chest. Right over his heart.

He continued his inventory. Ski pants that matched the parka. Then, he pulled a wooly sock off; he touched each toe in turn. A full count. He repeated the maneuver with his other foot. A little tingly, but otherwise full feeling. So far, so good. One more piece of anatomy to check. His hand trembled as it snaked down the front of the ski pants. Then, Ray heaved a huge sigh of relief. Inventory done, he turned his attention to his surroundings.

He was lying on the other space blanket atop a bed of sweet-smelling pine boughs in a lean-to constructed of pine branches. It was anchored against a wall of stone behind the fire. It was bigger and sturdier than the fallen tree shelter Fraser had erected yesterday. Was that yesterday? Ray wasn't sure. But, through the gaps in the branches, he could tell it was night. He swivelled his head, making a slow survey of the shelter. There were his clothes, spread over a suspended rope; a woodpile, divided into neat stacks of tinder, kindling, and split boughs; the fire, set in a ring of blackened stones; a backpack leaning against the boulders that made up the wall; two helmets; Benny. Ray's gaze settled back on the fire which burned cheerily in the rough hearth. Then, he did a double take and turned back sharply. Benny! His friend, fully dressed in his own clothes, sat slumped on the pine bough floor, his chin resting on his chest, his chest rising and falling in regular rhythm.

Ray croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Benny?" Then, a little louder, "Benny!"

Fraser slowly lifted his head, and blinked blearily. "Welcome back, Ray," he said finally, his lips quirking in a small smile. He crawled to the fire and came back with a tin cup that had been sitting next to it. Ray tossed the slightly warm meltwater back in one gulp, despite Fraser's admonition to take it slow. It soothed his dry throat. He handed the empty cup back to Fraser, who filled it with more snow and set it by the fire.

"How do you feel, Ray?"

"Good. I feel good," Ray said, surprised at the truth of that statement. He looked closely at his friend. "You OK?" Pale and drawn, with dark shadows under his eyes, Fraser looked all in.

"I'm a little tired," he admitted.

Ray looked around at the shelter and tried to imagine all the work that had gone in to this while he had been out. "No wonder," he said, drily. Then, followed it with a heartfelt, "Thanks, Benny."

"No problem, Ray." Then, he added, "Are you hungry?"

His stomach rumbled. "Starving! We got any grubs?"

"All out. How about a granola bar?" He grabbed the backpack and rummaged inside.

Ray licked his lips in anticipation, wondering where Benny had found the pack. And, come to think of it, the yellow parka and ski pants. He glanced down at the ski suit and the hole over his heart. Sudden comprehension flooded him. He looked up to see Fraser watching him. He was backlit by the fire, his face in shadow. Ray couldn't see his expression.

He fingered the hole in the parka, and said, lightly, "I thought you aimed for the shoulder."

"I did." He tossed the granola bar to Ray, who caught it easily. "I missed." He shrugged. "I'm not as accurate with my left."

"Really?" he said, lightly. "I won't tell the Dragon Lady. She'll rip away your little pistol badge."

Fraser stared into the fire and didn't reply.

Ray dropped the bantering tone. "You had no choice, Benny. It was him or you."

"I know that," he said, softly. "It's just ... " He trailed off and poked the fire with a stick.

"Understood," Ray said, echoing his tone. He heard again the voices of the drowning men he had lured to the pond. He shook his head, sharply, dispelling the memory. He and Benny were alive. That was all that mattered.

Fraser, obviously seeking to change the subject, asked, "Would you like a cup of tea, Ray?" He reached into the pack, removed a small tin, and fumbled the lid off with one hand. He extracted a teabag.

Ray looked down at the granola bar. Fraser had tossed it with his left hand. "What's wrong with your right arm, Benny?"

"I cut myself when I fell off the snowmobile," he replied, the master of understatement. He made it sound as if the fall was a result of his own clumsiness and not Jean shooting the machine out from under him. If Ray hadn't seen the action with his own eyes, he might have fallen for it.

He narrowed his eyes, "Let me see."

"Eat first."

Ray's mouth was watering so hard he was afraid he would drool on the parka, but he held off opening the granola bar. "Show me and I will."

Fraser saw his determination and complied. He stripped off his leather jacket, then his shirt. The right sleeve of the union suit was cut off at the forearm, though it was hard to tell at first, since the bandage there was soaked with blood.

"Oops, it's leaking again."

"Leaking? Leaking?! What the hell, Fraser?!"

Fraser was taken aback at his angry tone. "Why are you yelling at me?"

"I am _not_ yelling at you!" Ray shouted.

"You _are_ yelling at me!"

Ray glared at him. "You did all this," he gestured to the shelter, the fire, the clothesline, himself, "when you're bleeding out?! And you want to have a tea party?! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"I'm hardly bleeding out, Ray," Fraser said, amused. "I just need a few stitches."

"Stitches!" he shouted. "You need a hospital!"

"Well, Ray," he said, as if speaking to a child, "that's not possible at the moment." He was puzzled by the hostility. "I'd have done it already," he shrugged, "but I fell asleep." He peeled off the sopping bandage.

Ray gaped at the long, jagged gash on Fraser's arm. If his stomach wasn't so empty, it would have turned over. As it was, it just growled piteously.

"I'll do it," he said, quickly, not giving himself a chance to think.

"Do what?"

"Sew up your arm." Ray gulped, in spite of himself.

"No, I couldn't ask you to do that. You hate needles." Fraser dabbed at the blood with a piece of cloth. "I'll do it."

"As much as you hate to admit it, Fraser, you are _not_ Superman," Ray said, in a steely tone. "_I'm_ sewing up your arm." He thrust an angry finger in his friend's face. "And if you give me any more lip, so help me, I'm gonna get my gun."

Fraser rocked back on his heels at the ferocity. "Alright, Ray," he said, meekly. He gestured to the granola bar. "But perhaps you should eat first."

"It's probably better if I did it on an empty stomach," Ray admitted.

"Your blood sugar's low. That's why your hands are shaking." He rummaged through the backpack again, pulling out a hatchet, a coil of rope, and a small wrench, all of which he laid aside. He dove back into the bag. "Besides, I need to sterilize the needle and thread." With a cry of triumph, he extracted a small sewing kit.

That knapsack was like Mary Poppins' carpetbag, Ray thought. He wondered if Jean had been a Boy Scout, but left that thought unexpressed. He didn't want to think anymore about the dead man whose clothes he was wearing. He looked at Fraser, busy with boiling needle and thread in the tin cup. And neither should Benny. They were alive and that was all that mattered. Ray gave in to the demands of the flesh, and ate the dead man's food and drank the dead man's tea without guilt.

In the end, it took thirty-two stitches. When it was done, Ray didn't know who was paler, him or Fraser. He finished taping the field dressing in place, and leaned back, wiping the sweat from his face.

"I'd give a year's pay for a drink right now," he said, wearily.

Fraser winced as he carefully pulled his shirt sleeve over the bandage. "By drink, you mean –?"

"Booze ... hooch ... firewater."

"Oh," he said. "We don't have any of that." He buttoned the shirt, pulled on his jacket, then ventured, "Will Napoleon brandy do?"

Ray nodded, mutely.

Fraser rummaged in the backpack again, and extracted a flat silver flask. He handed it to Ray.

Ray unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. Then, he took a slug of the finest cognac he had ever tasted. He closed his eyes as an exquisite warmth spread throughout his body. When he opened his eyes, Fraser was reaching for the flask. Astonished, Ray handed it over.

"Here's looking at you, Ray," he said, taking a tiny sip. He coughed, wiped his mouth, and hastily handed the flask back.

Ray shook his head and took another swig. He offered it back to Benny, but he refused any more, making a face. This from the man who licked the bottom of shoes! Ray's chuckle turned into a chortle, then a full-throated belly laugh. Damn, it was good to be alive!


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

"Watch out for that rock, Ray," Fraser said, "On the left!" He tightened his grip and unconsciously leaned to the right, pulling Ray along with him.

"I see it, I see it," he shot back, "You're doing that thing again. Stop it or we're gonna spill."

Fraser straightened in the seat. "Sorry," he said, contritely.

"Sheesh!" he said, then muttered, "Back seat drivers!"

In this case, he meant it literally. They were riding double on the yellow snowmobile. Ray had insisted on driving. He was perfectly capable of handling the machine, now that they weren't being chased by bad guys. And, unlike Fraser, he was able-bodied. In fact, now that Ray was warmed, fed and rested, he felt fine, with no lasting effects from his dip in the pond. In the yellow parka and ski pants, he was wonderfully toasty. The only casualty was his fashion sense.

Fraser's arm, however, was pretty sore. Not that he would ever admit it, but Ray could tell. When he fell off the snowmobile, his arm had gotten caught and dragged into the undercarriage. The belt mechanism had nearly wrenched it out of its socket, in addition to ripping the gash in the forearm. When Ray checked the wound this morning, the stitches had held, the bleeding had stopped, and there was no sign of infection. Still, Fraser was careful with it, moving it gingerly when he moved it at all. And after the ordeal last night, Ray had a proprietary interest in the thirty two stitches - there was no way he was risking re-injury.

They had performed one final task before breaking camp. A grim one. Jean's body lay where he had died, in the nearby field of moguls. Yesterday, after he had disentangled himself and crawled out from under his damaged snowmobile, Fraser had jumped on Jean's yellow machine and sped away from the scene. He had followed the tracks to the pond. Then, he had brought Ray back here to the pile of boulders. After he had deposited his barely conscious partner, wrapped in the space blankets, in the lee of the rocks, he had returned to Jean's body. He had stripped it quickly of useful things, then had raced back to Ray to bundle him in the down parka and ski pants. Starting the fire and building the shelter had come next, and taken the last of his strength.

This morning, when Fraser had told Ray what he wanted to do, he expected an argument. But, Ray had just nodded. The only argument had been over who would drive.

"There it is," Fraser said, pointing.

Ray pulled to a stop. The black snowmobile lay on its side. There was a frozen puddle of black oil beside it where the Arctic Cat 3000 had bled out. Jean lay on his back close by, his shotgun next to his frozen fingers. It didn't take the deductive powers of Sherlock Holmes to figure out what had happened here. Ray swallowed hard as he reconstructed the scene after he had lured the three henchmen away. In his minds eye, it was like a movie playing in slow motion: Fraser lying under the black snowmobile, right arm caught in the tread mechanism, his red blood mingling with the black oil, coming back to consciousness as Jean approached, slowly, inexorably, his shotgun locked and loaded, taking aim at Fraser's head, cocking the weapon, then flying backward as a .45 slug slammed into his heart, dead before he hit the snow.

Ray knelt next to the body. Jean had been wearing a flannel shirt and jeans under the yellow ski suit. There was a hole in the shirt, of course, but very little blood. Ray tried to shut the eyes, but they were frozen open. He looked up at Fraser's mask-like face.

"OK, let's do this," Ray said.

They laid the tarp from the backpack beside the body and rolled Jean up like a cigar, then secured him tightly with rope. Ray breathed a sigh of relief once that was done. It was better without seeing those dead eyes every time he turned around. He siphoned the gasoline from the black snowmobile into the tank of the yellow one while Fraser fashioned a towing array from the rope and affixed it to the snowmobile. They dragged the body slowly back to their shelter and placed it inside on the bed of boughs.

Ray insisted that Fraser let him do the heavy lifting. After all, he explained, Fraser had done all the work in setting up camp while Ray slept. The least he could do was break it down. It was a face-saving appeal whose real purpose was to keep Fraser from straining his injured arm and shoulder. Ray puttered in and around the shelter and the snowmobile. Meanwhile, Fraser looked up at the largest rock in the pile, on the side that faced the snowfield. He held a small jar of luminous trail paint in his right hand and a piece of wood in his left. He stood there, thinking.

"They left me there, you know."

"I know, Dad." he replied, without turning around.

"It was days before I was found," Bob Fraser said, morosely. "They didn't care if I ever was."

Fraser was silent. He dipped the stick in the paint and started to paint.

"He would have left you," Bob pointed out. "And the Yank."

"I know," Fraser said, quietly. "But, I can't do that." He swiped the stick along the rock, making one bold slash, then dropped his hand. He bowed his head. "If that makes me soft ... well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Dad."

"Disappoint me?"

Fraser shrugged his left shoulder and continued painting.

His father cleared his throat. "I'm not disappointed." He paused. "I'm ... uh ... proud of you, Ben."

He whirled and stared at his father in disbelief.

"Well, I am," the ghost said, defensively.

"I don't think you've ever said that before," Fraser said, wonderingly.

"Said what before?" Ray said, coming around the rocks.

Fraser looked at him, then turned back. His father was gone. He smiled slightly. They never could talk about their feelings without one of them beating a hasty retreat. "Nothing, Ray." He continued to paint.

Ray cocked his head, and closed one eye. "Is that a code?"

Fraser nodded, "Universal trailblazing symbol."

"There's a symbol for 'Hey you, dead body ahead'?"

"Well, no, Ray," he admitted. "But the saltine cross is both a warning and attention-getter."

"What about the guys in the pond?"

In answer, Fraser drew a large orange arrow pointing in that direction, noted the distance in kilometers, and added three little stick figures under it.

Ray squinted at it. "I don't know, Benny. This hardly qualifies as reporting a body."

"I know. We'll call the local RCMP post when we get to a phone."

"You ready?" he said, as he pushed down the visor of his helmet.

"Almost." Fraser added "BF" and the date to the bottom of the rock and screwed the lid back on. He put the jar in the backpack. Ray helped him into the pack, careful of his injured shoulder. They climbed on to the snowmobile and headed east.

It was another three hours before they saw the road. They paralleled it for a bit until they came to the truck stop. No town, no houses. Just gas pumps, a few trucks and cars, and a low slung building made out of cement block, painted a dingy white. As they got closer, Ray saw the sign. It read simply "Fuel, Food, Clean Toilet." He admired its direct, if inelegant, simplicity. It was a pit stop. For both people and machines in the middle of nowhere.

"Hallelujah!" he shouted. Fraser enthusiastically patted him on the shoulder. Ray pulled up to the back end of the parking lot and shut off the snowmobile. As he got off the machine, he saw the object of his desire across the parking lot, gleaming in the sun. "Benny! Look!" He broke into a run, Fraser right beside him. Fraser got their first, grabbed the receiver and put it to his ear. He grinned broadly when he heard the dial tone, then handed it to Ray. He squeezed into the phone booth, but left the door open so Benny could hear. Fraser dug into his pocket and handed him a Canadian quarter. Ray dropped it in the slot and dialed "O". Actually dialed. It was a rotary phone. In an actual phone booth.

"Operator. How may I help you?"

Ray thought she had the most angelic voice he'd ever heard. He squeezed the receiver tightly and said, "Uh, hello, Operator. I want to make a collect call to Chicago. Um, you know, USA?"

"Yes, sir. The number? And your name?"

Ray gave her the information, then waited breathlessly as she put the call through. At last, he heard Frannie say, "Hello?" Ray squeezed his eyes shut, momentarily overcome with emotion. When he opened them, Fraser was watching him, smiling without smiling in that way he had.

"I have a collect call from Ray. Will you accept the charges?"

Frannie gasped hugely, then said, "You sick, twisted, perverted bastard! How dare you!" She hung up before Ray could react. Stunned, he looked at Fraser and found the same expression mirrored on his friend's face.

"Sir?! Sir?! Ray?!"

Ray realized the operator had been calling his name for some time. He swallowed and said, "I'm still here."

Her tone was less friendly. "Do you wish to make another call, sir?"

"Yeah, try that same number again!"

She hesitated. "Are you certain, sir? The recipient seemed quite ... firm ... in refusing the charges."

"There's some kind of mistake. Try again, Operator. Please."

She put the sequence of numbers through again. Again, Frannie answered, this time her tone was wary.

"Yes, who is it?"

"Operator. I have a collect call from Ray –"

Frannie slammed the phone down so hard it made Ray's ear ring.

"Operator! Get her back!"

"I'm sorry, sir. I cannot continue to place calls when the recipient refuses to accept."

"The 'recipient' is my sister!" In an aside to Fraser, he said "I'm gonna kill her!" Unfortunately, he failed to cover the mouthpiece.

"Sir!" The operator was upset. "I'm afraid I will have to report this to my supervisor."

"You report it to anybody you want, lady. Just get my sister back – "

Fraser intervened. "Ray! Ray! Ray!" He wrested the phone from Ray's grasp and squeezed into the booth with him. It was a tight fit with the backpack on his shoulders and Ray's yellow Michelin Man suit.

"Operator, this is Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP," he said, smoothly.

"Really?" Her voice was skeptical.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "I think there has been a misunderstanding. Please put through a person-to-person call to –"

"Sir, the young woman is obviously refusing calls from Ray. I cannot continue –"

"You're right, of course, ma'am."

"Thank you," she said, slightly mollified.

"The person-to-person call, however, is from Benton Fraser to Francesca Vecchio, same number." He added. "Francesca Appollonia Vecchio."

"Oh," she said. "Well. Perhaps that would be alright." She did things electronically again.

Ray said, "She told you her middle name? She never tells anybody! She hates it!" He looked at Fraser suspiciously. "When did she tell you that?"

Before he could respond, Frannie answered. "Yeah?" Her tone was belligerent now.

The operator hesitated, then said, hurriedly, "Person to person collect call for Francesca Appollonia Vecchio from Benton Fraser. Will you accept the charges?"

There was dead silence.

"Ma'am? Do you accept the charges? Ma'am!"

"Y-yes," Frannie choked out. "Yes!"

"Go ahead, sir."

"Thank you kindly, Operator," Fraser said. She clicked off.

"Benton!" Frannie sobbed, "Is it really you?" She was crying so hard that it was difficult for Fraser to understand her.

"Yes, it's me, Francesca," he said, confused and uncomfortable by the emotional display, even if it was long distance. "There, there," he said, inadequately.

"I'm really here too, Frannie," Ray shouted angrily into the phone. "If you care!"

Frannie sobbed even louder. Fraser held the phone away from his ear. When she took a breath, he said, "Francesca, is there someone there with you?"

"No," she cried, "I'm all by myself." She started sobbing again. He thought he heard the word "airport" but he couldn't be certain.

"Francesca! Francesca! Take a deep breath. Yes, that's it. Breathe. Good. Again." He breathed along with her, glancing over at Ray who was scowling and gesturing for the phone. Fraser shook his head sharply, and said, "Now, Francesca. Are you calm? Good. Do you have a pencil and paper? Yes, go ahead and get it. I'll wait. Yes, I'm not going anywhere." He paused. "I promise."

"Gimme the phone, Benny!"

Fraser turned his body so Ray couldn't grab it. "Are you calm, Ray?"

"Yes, I'm calm! Why wouldn't I be calm?! My stupid sister just hung up on me! Twice! Now, gimme the damn phone!"

"Breathe, Ray. Take a deep bre - " He turned his attention back to the phone. "Yes, Francesca. I'm still here." Pause. "Are you ready? Write this down." He read her the phone number off the payphone. "Read it back to me. Yes, that's correct." Pause. "I don't know exactly where we are." He looked around in vain for some sort of identifier. "Ontario, I believe." Pause. "Yes. That _is_ in Canada." He held the phone away from his ear as she let out a shriek.

That was Ray's chance. He snatched the phone from Fraser and shouted into it. "Frannie?! What the hell?! You hung up on me! Twice! I coulda been dying, with my last words on my lips! And you hung up on me! Twice!" He held the phone away from his ear then, as she wailed like a banshee.

Fraser grabbed the phone back and gave Ray a reproachful look. "Now, now Francesca. Breathe deeply." He inhaled, then let it out. "Again. Yes, just like that."

Ray threw his hands up in exasperation and shoved past Fraser out of the booth. He sniffed the air. Someone was frying bacon in the café. He listened to his partner patiently soothing his hysterical sister. Frannie was eating this up. She'd never let Benny off the phone while he was talking to her in that soft, intimate voice, breathing in tandem with her, in and out, in and out. It was disgusting. He moved out of earshot and casually looked around for some kind of road sign or marker to tell him where he was. In the distance, there was a guy pumping diesel fuel into a big stake-body truck, its cargo area covered by faded khaki canvas. Just as Ray decided to walk over and ask him where the hell they were, he finished and put the pump back in its cradle. There was a passenger in the front of the cab. He turned and spoke to the driver out the window. Ray's eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he saw his face. He didn't see Ray. The driver climbed back into the cab.

Ray shook himself out of his paralysis. He ran back to the phone booth and grabbed the receiver from Fraser. He shouted into it. "Frannie! Shut up! Write this down! Quebec plate ******* ! Big black truck! Canvas back! Call Welsh! Don't argue with me!" He had to hold the phone away from his ear as she screamed abuse at him. He handed Fraser the phone in frustration. "Francois is in that truck, Benny!" He started running toward the vehicle.

"No, Ray!" Fraser called, "Wait!" He lunged for Ray's arm but missed, then was jerked back by the telephone wire attached to the receiver he was still holding. Frannie's voice, tinny and shrill, came down the wire, " ... scaring us like that! Raymond Vecchio, do you have any idea what it's been like around here for the past –!"

"Hurry up, Benny!" Ray said, over his shoulder without slowing down.

Fraser spoke quickly, breaking into to Frannie's tirade. "Francesca, stop! Please!" He repeated the truck information, and made her read it back. "Francesca, call the Consulate too! We will be in that truck! We're counting on you! I have to go, Francesca!" She wouldn't stop talking. "Really, I'm sorry, Francesca. But, I have to go now." She wasn't listening, in full rant, about how Ray never thinks of others, all the worry he had caused, his general character flaws. "I'm sorry, but I have to hang up." She still ranted. "Goodbye, now." She ranted some more. "Goodbye. Goodbye, Francesca!" He hung up the phone in mid-sentence, feeling rude and guilty about his rudeness, and ran after Ray. By this time, Ray had caught up to the truck. With both hands on the tailgate and a foot on the bumper, he hoisted himself up and into the back. Fraser raced to catch up as the truck started to accelerate out of the parking lot, belching black exhaust and making an ungodly racket. Ray leaned over the tailgate and held out his right hand.

"Come on, Benny! You can do it!" He urged him on, then stopped. He held out his left hand, instead. "Stitches, Benny! Mind my stitches!"

Fraser switched hands, holding out his left and Ray grabbed it, giving him a boost up on the bumper, then pulled him the rest of the way in. They fell together on the bed of the truck and lay there, breathless, staring up at the canvas roof. The truck hit a pothole and they bounced up and down.

Fraser spoke first. "Are you sure about this, Ray?"

"I know it's a different truck, Benny, but it's definitely Francois in the passenger seat."

"I mean, are you sure you want to do this?"

Ray, brow furrowed in thought, didn't answer his question. "You shot out the two tires on the other truck. They probably had only one spare. Getting a new truck in was probably faster than bringing in new tires and fixing the old one."

"Probably." Fraser acknowledged, "But, Ray –"

"As far as they know back at the dock, Jean and the snowmobile gang could still be chasing us." The truck slowed as it drove into and out of another pothole, then accelerated. It was smelly and noisy. It needs a new muffler, Ray thought, as it rattled and roared.

"Perhaps. But, Ray –"

"But, just in case, they've had plenty of time to clear out of the cove."

"Yes, I imagine there's nothing incriminating left behind there," he agreed. "But, Ray –"

"And the tugboat will be back on the big Lake by now, heading who knows where."

"I'm sure that's true. But, Ray –"

But Ray was on a roll. "You said the force is spread pretty thinly in these parts, Benny. It would have been hours before the local cops could respond. And by that time, this truck would have been long gone!" The truck slowed for another pothole before resuming speed.

"You're right," Fraser admitted, "But, Ray -"

"This might be our only link to who's running this operation."

"I agree. But, Ray –"

Ray finally answered him. "But what, Benny?"

"You've been buried under a stack of bodies, stuck in a crate on an open barge for three days, shanghaied to Canada, shot at, chased, got seasick and hypothermic and nearly drowned." He paused for breath as Ray stared at him. "And, you were looking forward to a hot meal and a shower. You said so a dozen times this morning."

Ray's mouth dropped open. Christ! Had he really just dived in the back of a truck going God knows where when they had finally made it back to civilization? What the hell was wrong with him? Fraser was looking at him with a worried expression. Like his mother used to do before she'd lay a hand on his forehead, checking for fever. Now that he had time to think, he was just as shocked as Fraser at his impulsive action. Was it the lack of decent food or near death experience affecting his mind? Maybe something in the Canadian air? No, dammit! He knew what he was doing.

He scratched his beard, ruefully. He could still smell that bacon frying. "It's like ... a ... a ... jigsaw puzzle, Benny. We've been working on it for weeks, picking up the little pieces and gradually putting them together. Now, there's only a few pieces left before we can see the big picture." He looked earnestly at Fraser. "I want to see it through. It's personal, now."

He held his gaze. "Understood."

For the first time, Ray noticed how Fraser was cradling his right arm with his left. He smacked his forehead. "Jeez, Benny! I wasn't thinking! I'm sorry!" He got to his feet and reached out a hand. "C'mon. We can jump out at the next pothole. Get you to a doctor."

Fraser stayed on his back, looking up at him. He didn't take the hand. "I'm fine, Ray. I want to see this through, too."

"Really? You're not just saying that to be polite?"

"I'm not that polite." He sat up. "Really, I'm OK."

Ray finally nodded. "OK." He sat down beside him. "Too bad about that hot meal." He scratched his beard. "Of course, _I_ already had a bath." He sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. "Unlike some people I know."

Fraser frowned and sniffed at his shirt. Ray smiled to himself, then took a look around the truck. They were surrounded by wooden crates and boxes in various shapes and sizes, obviously the contents of the barge from Chicago. He pointed. "Hey, look!" He lurched to one big crate and ran a hand over the wood, affectionately. "It's our crate." He worked to undo the lid. "You want a peach?"


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

Thatcher sat at her desk, reading the latest memorandum from Ottawa on yet another revision to yet another version of the standard visa application. Or rather, she was re-reading the same paragraph of said memo over and over without comprehending a single line. She heard a sigh and peered over her desk at the source.

Diefenbaker lay on his side on the rug. Since yesterday, the wolf had been inconsolable, to the point that he refused to eat. Turnbull had even bought him a jelly donut from HeavenScent, but it still sat in his bowl, stale and uneaten. She set the memo down and rubbed her eyes. Then, she reached into her pocket and removed a slip of paper. She smoothed the creases from Fraser's note. She traced the words with a gentle finger. BRAN WRF BARG TPK NAR. Hardly, a missive to get sentimental about. Still, they were the last words she would ever have from him.

Diefenbaker sighed again, and this time, she echoed him. Yesterday had been ... difficult. Breaking the tragic news of the death of a police officer to his sisters had been one of the toughest experiences of her life, even though she had been little more than a bystander, there to pay her respects and lend moral support to Welsh. Her admiration for the Lieutenant had grown by leaps and bounds in the hours they had spent at the Vecchio home. He was professional, but personal; emotional, yet practical; strong and compassionate.

In the aftermath of the news, Maria Vecchio had thrown herself into her husband's arms. Welsh had enfolded Frannie in a bear hug, wiping her face with his hankie when she at last pulled away. Thatcher felt awkward. She was not comfortable around emotional displays, and had begun to feel that she had intruded on the family in their time of grief. But then, Frannie took her hand and offered her own condolences on the loss of Fraser with such genuine grace that Meg was deeply touched. They had sat in the homely kitchen, drinking coffee and eating cookies. That simple act of sharing food was a balm to Meg's heart. Mrs. Vecchio was scheduled to return from Florida on the morrow. Her daughters had concealed Ray's absence from her, hoping that he would turn up in the interim. It was decided that the press release would be delayed until she returned. Maria, Tony and the grandchildren would meet her at the airport as originally planned. They would bring her home, where her daughters would break the news that Ray was missing, and presumed dead.

Yes, it had been a rough day, and a rougher night. Meg had cried herself to sleep for the first time since childhood. But today ... today was worse. Today was real life, and the reality that Ben Fraser had been shot in the warehouse, his body dropped through a trap door onto a barge and dumped into Lake Michigan. He was not coming back. Not ever. She knew it. Turnbull knew it. The wolf knew it. There would be no funeral, no body to bury, no chance to say goodbye. He was ... gone. Meg dropped her head into her hands. Tears dripped between her fingers and on to the note on the desk. She rubbed at it, succeeding only in smearing the ink. It was like she was wiping away a part of his existence. That made her feel worse and her face crumpled. Something touched her knee. She looked down into the grieving eyes of Diefenbaker. She hugged him tightly and let her silent tears fall in his ruff.

Just then, an ear-splitting scream startled her. Her sudden movement alarmed the wolf and he bristled, turning to the open doorway with a growl. Thatcher shot to her feet. Downstairs, Turnbull yelled incoherently. He thundered up the stairs, then burst into her office. His eyes were wild, his face stark white.

"What?!" she cried, her heart thudding in her chest. "What is it?!"

He stumbled into the room, then stood there, swaying. "They're alive! Elaine just – c-called -call – uhhhh, " he said, before dropping to the floor in a dead faint. Diefenbaker rushed to him and licked his face.

Thatcher collapsed into her chair. Her legs simply would not hold her. She knew she should go to Turnbull's aid, but she couldn't move. One thought sang in her mind: _He's alive! He's alive! He's alive! He's alive! He's alive! He's alive! _

After a moment, she touched her wet face. Her expression changed, and she savagely rubbed the tears away with the back of her hand. "Fraser!" she snarled, through gritted teeth. She looked down at the smudged, tearstained note, then crumpled it and threw it in the wastebasket. She stood up, yanked her jacket down over her hips, and strode to her junior officer. He was sitting up, woozily.

"Turnbull!" she bellowed, "Get up!" He lurched to his feet, swaying dangerously. "Go throw water on your face and meet me downstairs."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, tottering out of her office.

She stomped down the stairs, marched to the kitchen, and snatched the keys to the car from the hook on the wall. Diefenbaker had his head in his bowl, gnawing on the stale donut.

"You!" she said, pointing a finger at him.

He stared up at her guiltily, the donut hanging out of his mouth.

"In the car! Now!"

Turnbull clattered down the stairs as she was pulling on her coat. The collar of his tunic was wet, but there was some color in his cheeks. He grabbed his hat and coat and dashed to open the front door for her. She sailed through. He hustled to the sidewalk to open the rear passenger door, but she climbed into the drivers seat. He stood there, shocked, still holding the door. Dief jumped in the back.

"Turnbull! Get in!" she yelled over her shoulder, as she started the engine.

He hesitated, not sure whether he should get in the back, or walk around to the front passenger seat.

"Turnbull!"

He hastily slid in next to the wolf. The car was already moving by the time he pulled the door shut. She was silent the entire ride, jaw set, white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel. Turnbull and Dief cowered in the back seat. She made every light by the skin of her teeth, setting a new land speed record for the distance between the Canadian Consulate and the 27th Precinct, without taking out a pedestrian.


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Ray jerked awake as he was tossed up, down and sideways before landing back on the wooden floor of the truck bed. The crate he had been leaning against - home crate - wobbled precariously, but soon settled. Ray looked about groggily. In the gloom inside the truck, he saw Fraser sitting against a box by the tailgate, peering out through the canvas flap. He was talking to himself again.

" ... don't know. Perhaps, he used to be a very thin man." A pause, then "That's what bothers me."

Ray rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "What?"

Fraser turned. Backlit as he was by the sunlight coming through the opening in the canvas, Ray couldn't make out his expression.

"Ray!" He glanced quickly to his right, then back at his friend. "You're awake!"

"Nothing gets past you, Benny," he said. "What's up?"

"We're in Quebec."

"How can you tell?"

"The highway signs are in French."

"Oh." Ray stood and stretched as best he could, given the low headroom, then made his careful way to the tailgate, holding on to boxes and crates to keep his balance. The truck hit another pothole and Ray was nearly jettisoned from the vehicle. Fraser grabbed him just in time.

"Whoa! The roads here are worse than home. And that's saying something." He sat next to his friend and peered out at the passing countryside. "It looks just like Ontario."

"We crossed the provincial line about an hour back." Fraser consulted his compass. "We've been on an easterly heading ever since."

"You were supposed to wake me an hour ago," Ray complained.

"I was just about to," he said, with his patented too-innocent look.

They slowed for another rut, then accelerated back to a steady 30 mph pace. Ray didn't know what that was in kilometers, but this truck had seen better days. The driver wasn't taking any chances on breaking an axle or bending a rim. Ray peered out at where they had been, with a sigh. He had no idea where they were going. Eventually, they'd have to stop. For fuel, if nothing else.

"They filled up at the truck stop," Ray mused. "Truck this size, going this slow... whaddya figure its range? 250 miles, give or take?"

Fraser nodded. "It doesn't appear especially equipped for longer trips."

"Not like the tug."

"No."

Another pothole tossed them in the air. "The shocks on this thing are shot. So's the exhaust system," Ray said, stating the obvious. "I bet they had to scramble for a different truck when you shot out _two_ tires." Ray shook his head, admiringly. "That was quick thinking, Benny."

Fraser looked embarrassed at the praise. "As you said, most vehicles carry only one spare."

"If that."

"Indeed."

They slowed for another rut. "I take it we're sticking to back roads still?" At Fraser's nod, he sighed. "Not likely to happen across a French Mountie way out here, I guess."

Fraser shifted on his perch. "Actually, Ray, you mean French-_Canadian_ Mounties. Not that there are any." He frowned. "Well, there_ are_ French-Canadians in the Mounties. But not in Quebec. Unless they live here." At Ray's confused look, he explained, "What I mean is, the RCMP doesn't police Quebec. Or Ontario, for that matter. Those provinces have their own police forces."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Huh." Then, a troubling thought occurred. "Hey, does that mean you don't have jurisdiction here, either?"

Fraser rubbed his chin. "Yes and no. Ordinarily, an RCMP officer would not have jurisdiction in either province, unless it was an issue of federal law." He paused. "However, one could argue that I am in 'hot pursuit.'"

Ray snorted, "All the way from Chicago?"

"Indeed."

"I don't know, Benny," he said, blowing on his hands, "cold pursuit is more like it."

Fraser smiled, slightly. "But, to answer your question, Ray, in a rural district like this, given the extreme range that each station must cover, it is extremely unlikely that we would happen upon a Surete officer. Or, he or she upon us."

Ray nodded, glumly. He noticed that Fraser was holding the compass in his left hand, his right nestled carefully in his lap. "How's the arm?" he asked, though he already knew what the answer would be.

"It's fine, Ray," Fraser said, right on cue.

"You'd say that if it was falling off."

"It's not falling off," he replied, amused. "See?" he said, lifting it. He tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his wince.

"Yeah, I see, wiseguy. Lemme change the bandage while we have the chance."

Fraser dutifully slipped out of his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve while Ray retrieved supplies from the backpack. Ray carefully unwrapped the bandage. "You popped a stitch when you climbed in here," he complained. The snowmobile tread had really done a number on Fraser. In addition to the torn skin, the arm was swollen and bruised its entire length and into the shoulder. Luckily, his leather jacket had jammed the mechanism before it could really chew him up or Fraser might have lost fingers or his hand, or, Ray shuddered to think, it might even have yanked his arm out of the socket. How he had managed to take Jean out, one-armed, with the machine lying on top of him ...

Ray surveyed the arm with a critical eye. His stitching was no work of art, but it was serviceable. The popped stitch was a lost cause. There was no way he could put in a fresh one in the back of the truck as it jounced along. He'd end up putting somebody's eye out, probably his own. He'd use a butterfly bandage to keep it closed and hope for the best. Infection was the main concern now, given the primitive conditions. So far, so good. Thank God, Fraser had the constitution of an ox.

Fraser bore his ministrations stoically, but Ray knew it must hurt. As he worked, he said, lightly, "Can you believe my sister? Calling me names like that in front of the operator." He paused. "This is gonna sting, Benny." He dabbed on disinfectant with a piece of gauze. Fraser sucked air through his teeth, but made no other sound. Ray was thorough - an infection out here was too dangerous not to be.

Wincing in sympathy as he worked, Ray said, "Did Frannie say how Ma was doing?"

"I gathered that your mother was only now returning from Florida and had no idea that you have not been home in several days."

"Good. She'd be worried."

"Francesca was worried," Fraser prompted. "That's why she was so ... uh ... "

"Rotten?"

"Vocal." He hesitated. "You know, Ray, I have no siblings ..."

"Lucky you," he muttered, wrapping fresh gauze around the arm.

"No, Ray," he replied, earnestly. "Lucky _you_."

Ray had the grace to look abashed. "I just hope she calls Welsh. She's just as likely not to. Just to spite me."

"She _will _call, Ray. I believe the Inspector and the Lieutenant are even now working with the local authorities to find this truck."

They both peered out the back, expectantly. After a minute, they sat back in disappointment. Ray continued working.

Fraser looked over Ray's shoulder, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Why is Frank Nardo called 'the Toothpick'? From the sound of his footsteps at the warehouse, he has the heavy tread typical of a corpulent individual."

Ray laughed. "He's corpulent, all right. He's gotta weigh 300 pounds!"

"So, why the nickname? Had he gained weight after it was bestowed?"

"Nah, it's got nothing to do with his weight," Ray said. "The story goes back before my time. Maybe 25-30 years. I heard it from my Uncle Rocco before he passed." He tore small strips of tape from the roll. "There was this meeting at Steins - you know, the delicatessen?" At Fraser's nod, he continued, "That was neutral ground back, then. A couple of the local goombas could get together there, hash out disputes, have lunch while they're at it, without any shooting going on. So, one day, there's a meeting. Frank Nardo is there. Plus, one Eddie Falco. Couple of other guys. They order sandwiches. You know, those huge sandwiches they serve there? Stacked yay high, with big toothpicks holding em together? You can never finish em."

"Dief has."

"I meant, people, not wolves," Ray said. "Anyway, at the end of this meal, there's food left on everybody's plate. Except Frankie Nardo's. Even back then, Frankie was a big guy with a big appetite. Well, Eddie Falco starts laughing his ass off. He points to the empty plate and says, 'Frank ate it all, even the toothpicks!' I don't know what happened to the toothpicks, whether they were on the table, or the floor, or in Frank's pocket. But, Eddie's laughing so hard, he nearly blows a gasket. The other wiseguys sitting at the table are looking pretty nervous. Rocco said you could cut the tension with a knife. Finally, Frankie cracks a smile. Then, everybody has a good chuckle about it." He paused.

Fraser waited. "That's it?"

Ray shook his head. "Not by a long shot. See, as much as Frank Nardo has no sense of humor, Eddie Falco thought everything was a joke. A couple of days after the lunch, he sends an entire case of toothpicks to Nardo with a note that says "Buon Appetito!"

"I take it Mr. Nardo was not amused?"

Ray nodded. "Eddie had balls, but not much in the way of brains."

"What happened?"

"Shortly after that, Eddie pulls a Jimmy Hoffa. Disappears. Never heard from again. But, a coupla days later, Frankie Nardo is sporting a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. Never without it. Now, this is no ordinary wooden toothpick. No, this one looks like it's carved out of ivory." He paused. "Or bone. When it's not in his mouth, Frankie keeps it in a little satin-lined rosewood box in his breast pocket. My uncle got a good look at the box once. He said it looked like a miniature coffin. There were letters carved on it. Gave Rocco nightmares for weeks." He paused for effect.

"Letters?"

"Two letters," Ray said, ominously. "E and F."

He eyed him, suspiciously, "You don't mean –"

"Eddie Falco." He added, "Or what's left of him."

Fraser shivered involuntarily and then looked sharply at Ray. "You're making that up," he accused.

"No, Benny, I'm not," he said, solemnly. "Frankie Nardo got the last laugh."

"That's not funny a'tall, Ray."

"It is, a little," he said, defensively. Then, he looked around uneasily at the crates of hidden drugs and assault weapons that had come to Canada courtesy of Frank Nardo. They were right in the middle of the Toothpick's business, hoping to bust it wide open. Ray swallowed hard. Maybe this wasn't the best time for that story.

They were silent while Ray finished the bandaging, and taped the dressing carefully in place.

"There you go." He returned the first aid supplies to the backpack and zipped it shut.

"Thank you, kindly." Fraser rolled his shirt sleeve down, then donned his jacket.

They watched the countryside roll by in companionable silence.

"So, what's been bothering you?"

Fraser looked a question at him.

"I overheard you, Benny. Earlier. You said something was bothering you."

Fraser flushed to the roots of his hair. "Oh ... I ... uh ... sorry. I didn't mean ... to wake – "

Ray waved a hand at him. "Nah, a bump in the road woke me. And everybody talks to themselves once in a while." He raised his eyebrows in a question.

Fraser's blush slowly faded. "Well, I've been thinking about your jigsaw analogy. It's quite apt. But, there's one piece I can't quite fit in to the bigger picture."

"What's that?"

"The maple syrup. It's as if it belongs in another puzzle entirely. It doesn't fit with the cocaine, alcohol and weapons." He scratched his chin. The dark stubble had softened into the beginnings of a beard. "How do you sell high quality Canadian maple syrup on the American black market? I mean, without the proper provenance for the gourmet trade."

"Huh?"

Fraser explained. "In order to sell the syrup, Brian and Al had to decant it from the big barrels into smaller bottles and jars. No labels, no identifiers. Nothing to indicate that this was premium grade. They sold Quebecois Dark Reserve to diners and cafes at a fraction of its true value."

"They were kids! Amateurs."

"Yes, but the professionals couldn't get anywhere near a proper profit if the syrup couldn't be marketed to the people who would appreciate it. Such as the finer shops and boutique markets that carry such gourmet products. An anonymously sourced commodity couldn't command the price. Especially in America, where maple-flavored high fructose corn syrup is the norm."

Ray scratched his head. He saw Fraser's point. If he were to buy maple syrup from some guy off the back of a truck, he'd be damned sure to get it at a bargain price. Dirt cheap, in fact.

Fraser continued, "Granted, a sophisticated profiteer could counterfeit the labeling and packaging of high-end syrup. But, to make that investment worthwhile, you'd need a large, steady supply. Ten barrels seems too small to go to that kind of trouble. Especially for Americans who wouldn't know the difference." He added, "No offense."

"None taken." Ray furrowed his brow, in thought. "Ten fifty-five gallon barrels. That's still a lot of pancakes."

"One pancake house would go through several gallons a week, at least." He added, "And it's not contraband, like cocaine. One could walk into any supermarket and walk out with a bottle of maple syrup, albeit not the Quebecois Dark."

"So, what does it mean?"

"I don't know." He smiled crookedly at Ray. "But, it bothers me. I'm afraid I'm taking it personally, too."

He drew a sharp breath. Something in what Fraser said was ringing a bell, but he couldn't quite catch hold of it. Something ... something ...

"Ray?"

He spoke, haltingly. "Nardo said something to Vinnie and Joey just before they were shot." The elusive thought still refused to come. "Something about the syrup, I think?" He looked uncertainly at his friend.

Fraser looked blank, and shook his head. "About the syrup? I don't recall him using that term, Ray."

Ray shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. Maybe it was because he had been knocked unconscious a few minutes later, but the memory was too fuzzy to retrieve. He opened his eyes, frustrated. "I can't remember. Something one of them said, anyway. I don't know." He frowned at Fraser. "You try. Do that Zen thing you do."

"All right, Ray. I'll try." Fraser set his feet solidly on the bed of the truck, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He cast his mind back to that cold night at the warehouse, standing on a crate on the barge, under the warehouse floor that would soon open as a trap door. He let sense memory guide him as he smelled the mildewy odor of the pier, felt the current shift the barge under his feet, heard the voices of the men over his head. He felt tired, not having slept the night before when they delivered Helen and Dave to the train station. He tasted a remnant of the mustard from his corned beef sandwich at the corner of his mouth.

Ray watched Fraser as he traveled back in time. His eyes were closed, his body relaxed, his expression utterly blank. He breathed deeply, then sat up straight, his entire attention focused internally. He had gone away somewhere, deep in the recesses of memory.

Fraser was on the barge, peering up through a slat in the floor. Vinnie was pleading for more time to find Dave Everett. But he was out of time, as Frank Nardo said:

"_You need?! What about what I need?! You're the one who brought Mosely in on my operation. You vouched for him! And he stole from me. My personal stock! Mine!" _

Ray shivered. It was Fraser's voice, but the intonation was Frankie Nardo's. It gave Ray the creeps. Fraser blinked several times. It was a moment before he came fully back to the present.

Ray said, "Those ten barrels were never meant to be sold. They were Frankie's personal stock." He scratched his head. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know."

They were quiet for awhile, lost in their own thoughts. Ray broke the silence. "I'm hungry. What have we got left?" Of course, there were plenty of peaches in the big crate, but that was a last resort. Ray rummaged through the backpack and extracted the last granola bar. He peeled off the wrapper, broke it in half, and handed a piece to Fraser. When he refused to take it, claiming he wasn't hungry, Ray insisted. He only gave in when Ray threatened to throw both halves out the back.

As Fraser chewed, he looked out the back and continued thinking out loud. "I mean, what connection does such a small quantity of maple syrup have with this large-scale operation? Besides Quebec. As you know, the Quebecois Dark is restricted to sale within this province." He made a vague gesture encompassing the passing countryside.

Ray took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. "_That's_ the piece of the puzzle that's been bothering me."

Fraser swallowed, then said, "What?"

"It's a long way to Tipperary." He grinned at Fraser's blank look. "To Quebec. From Chicago, I mean."

"Yes."

"Whoever set this up ... I mean, it's really smart and all. They're smuggling drugs and assault weapons in large quantities right out in the open, doing an end run around the Coast Guard, DEA, Customs, ATF, and whatever you call the equivalent in Canada. Making a helluva lot of money."

"It's a very clever scheme, Ray."

"But, I can't wrap my mind around Frankie Nardo in bed with the Canadians."

Fraser blinked at him. "Mr. Nardo has something against Canadians?"

Ray shook his head. "I mean, the Toothpick only does business with family. It's one of his trademarks."

"Do you mean Family or family?"

"Huh?"

"Capital 'F' or small? Because, we do have our own organized crime syndicates in Canada too, Ray." Fraser frowned as he heard the note of defensive bragging in his voice.

"Small 'f'. All the higher ups and a lot of the minions in the Nardo organization are his relatives. We've never been able to break through that bond. The loyalties run too deep." He paused, thinking. "Even Vinnie and Joey were cousins, I'll bet. Once or twice removed, maybe."

"Permanently removed now, Ray."

"Yeah," he snorted. "Anyway, it doesn't make sense that Nardo would be in business with Canadians."

"On the contrary, Ray. It makes perfect sense."

"How?"

"It makes perfect sense," Fraser said, "if Frank Nardo has Canadian relations."

"C'mon, Benny."

"It's a theory, Ray. And one worth exploring."

"Hard to do from the inside of a truck." He sighed. "I miss Elaine."

"Me too." At Ray's look, he added, hastily, "And her computer skills."

Ray grinned slyly. "Ri-ight. She's got great big computer skills."

"Well, she does," Fraser said, defensively.

"I wonder what she's doing right now? What they're all doing?" he said, wistfully.


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

Elaine taped the map she had torn from a Rand-McNally road atlas to the blackboard. Welsh strode to the front of Interview 1 and stood beside her until the buzz in the room died down. Guardino, Huey, Thatcher and Turnbull looked expectantly at him. Elaine moved to take a seat, but Welsh stopped her.

"Why don't you start us off?"

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, blew out a nervous breath, and said, "OK." Welsh took a seat. Five faces now looked at her. "Well, as you all know," she started, "about two hours ago, Ray and Fraser called Frannie Vecchio. They told her they were in Canada and gave her the number of a phone booth at a truck stop here in Ontario." As she spoke, her nervousness settled and she focused on the information. She pointed to the red circle she had drawn on the map. "Jake's. It literally is a place where trucks stop - café, bathroom, gas pumps, that's it. There are no cities, towns or villages close by. Not even houses. The nearest town is North Bay, Ontario, which is forty five miles to the south." She pointed to another spot on the map. "However, the truck stop is only twenty five miles from the border with Quebec."

"What's there?" Guardino said, reaching for his glasses. "At the border?"

"A sign that says "'Welcome to Quebec.' In French and English." There was a ripple of laughter in the small room. "Nothing, Louis. No real towns till you reach Temiscaming, here, which is about 60 miles away."

"So," Huey asked, "what's the significance of it being close to the border of Quebec?"

"It's significant because Ray gave Frannie a Quebec license plate number." She consulted a file on the table before her. "Number *******."

"Inspector?" Welsh asked.

All eyes turned to Thatcher. "I have been in touch with both local police forces." At the blank looks, she explained, "The RCMP does not have active jurisdiction in the provinces of Ontario or Quebec. The operate their own provincial forces."

"Were you able to trace the plate?"

"Yes, but it was a dead end." She frowned. "The plate is registered to a truck belonging to a monastery in western Quebec about 250 miles east of the truck stop. But the plate was stolen off their vehicle. The Abbey didn't know it was missing until the Surete officer, Auguste Truffaut, called. He believes it was stolen the day before when the truck was in Temascaming making a delivery of its artisanal cheeses to local shops." She paused. "You must realize that this is a very rural area. The provincial forces on both sides of the border are spread extremely thin. But, Officer Truffaut and Officer Braithwaite - he's with the OPP - assured me that looking for the truck will be a top priority."

Again, she was met with blank stares. "The OPP - Ontario Provincial Police. Braithwaite did check out the phone booth and the truck stop, spoke to the owner and employees, walked the perimeter. No one saw Constable Fraser or Detective Vecchio use the phone. They did not enter the truck stop cafe. He did find a snowmobile parked behind the truck stop. The working assumption is that Fraser and Vecchio rode in on it, used the phone, and abandoned the machine there. And, according to Frannie, got into a truck with a Quebec plate."

Everybody started talking at once: How, when and where would they get a snowmobile? Why would they leave it? Why did the cop in Ontario think they left it? What were they doing in a truck? What were they doing in Canada at all? How did they get there? Why hadn't they called before? Why didn't they call now? What the hell was going on?

Welsh held up his hands. "People! People! Settle down!"

Thatcher spoke into the sudden quiet. "Apparently, the snowmobile is a top of the line model, a new Arctic Cat something or other. It was Officer Braithwaite's opinion that no local could afford it. Even if they could, they wouldn't have left it unattended. He has impounded the machine." She paused. "There's more. He found a gray overcoat stuffed into the rear compartment. The label was Armani."

"Ray's," Elaine said, speaking for the room.

Thatcher went on. "The coat was covered in blood. Truffaut bagged it and tagged it and sent it on to the lab in Toronto."

Turnbull gasped.

Elaine reassured him. "Frannie spoke to both Ray and Fraser. She said they sounded fine."

Thatcher added. "It would seem that the bloodstains on the overcoat and the blood traces at the warehouse belong to somebody other than Fraser and Vecchio."

Welsh murmured, "Thank God."

"Here, here," Turnbull chirped.

"Where do we stand with Bobby Vitale?" Welsh asked Huey.

"Lawyered up and scared shi – uh, witless," Huey replied. "He's more frightened of what Frank Nardo might do to him than anything we can bring to bear."

"He should be," Guardino said, grimly. "What about Frank Nardo, sir?"

"Elaine has been very thorough. Nothing connects Frank Nardo to that warehouse. Nothing, except rumor and hearsay."

Thatcher started to protest, but Welsh held up his hand. "I've talked to the State's Attorney. So far, we've arrested Bobby and his pal, Sonny Barone, on the strength of your evidence, Inspector, and that provided by Huey's CI. Plus, the physical evidence at the scene. But, the Big Fish is out of our reach. For the moment. Not unless one of his people turns state's evidence." He paused, then added for the Canadians' benefit. "And that's never happened before."

Thatcher subsided. Everyone was gloomily silent for a moment, digesting this information.

"The good news," Welsh added, "is that we know that Vecchio and Fraser are alive and well. Granted, they're incommunicado and their exact whereabouts are unknown," he acknowledged, frowning, "but, with those two, that is not without precedent. I trust that they will be in touch again, soon."

Elaine blurted out, "But, why Canada? What on earth are they doing there?"

Welsh and Thatcher exchanged glances. She nodded permission to the Lieutenant. He took a breath. "There is a Canadian connection. I am not at liberty to say exactly what that is ..." he held Thatcher's gaze a moment. "But, what I can say is that Vecchio and Fraser were working on the international angle as a possible motive for the murders of young Ames and Mosely and the attempt on David Everett's life."

The room erupted. "People! People! Settle down!"

Thatcher spoke into the sudden quiet. "I am pursuing a line of inquiry with my government that may shed some light on this matter."

"But, Inspector! If we can't know what they were working on, how can we help them?" Elaine asked.

She took a breath. "All I can tell you is that it is a sensitive political issue for my country, perhaps even a matter of national security. I simply cannot discuss it." She saw Huey and Guardino sizing up Turnbull. "Constable Turnbull has no knowledge of the matter, Detectives. Don't waste your time trying to wiggle it out of him."

Turnbull looked startled.

"It never occurred to me," Huey said.

"Nah, me neither," Guardino added.

"Lieutenant," Elaine looked at him, pleadingly. "They're all alone out there. We have to help them."

"I know," he said, running his hands through his hair. "But we have to leave it to Inspector Thatcher to work her side of the border."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Thatcher said, primly. "As a matter of fact, I'm flying in to North Bay today. Officer Braithwaite will meet me at the airport." She had called in a big favor with the British Consul, who maintained a private jet at O'Hare. She was now his date for their Consular ball next month, but his pilot would be ready to leave within the hour.

"But, they're not in North Bay," Elaine protested, then frowned. "I guess we don't know that for sure, since we don't know where they are."

"It's as close to their last known whereabouts as I can fly to," Thatcher said, patiently. "Once there, I'll be able to work closely with the local authorities of both provinces."

"It's good to have boots on the ground," Welsh said, positively. "We'll keep building our case here." He pointed to several large file boxes stacked waist-high on the floor. "Those are the records we seized from the warehouse. We'll comb through them, see what we can –"

There was a commotion at the door. Everybody turned to look, then the Americans reacted. Huey swore under his breath; Guardino hung his head; Elaine bit her lip; Welsh scowled. Thatcher and Turnbull did not recognize the three men in business suits who entered the room as if they owned it. The one in front, a middle-aged man of medium height, marched up to the Lieutenant.

"Welsh," he said, without warmth.

"Agent Ford," Welsh replied, flatly. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. It's what I – or rather, we – can do for you." He gestured to the other two men. "Agent Tyler, Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms." Welsh shook the hand of the portly, balding man. "Agent Harrison, FBI Task Force on Organized Crime."

"We've met." Welsh shook the third man's hand. He was a dead ringer for an older, taller Tom Cruise. "How are you, Joe?"

"Good, Harding," he replied, not meeting his eyes. "Sorry about this."

Welsh narrowed his eyes. "Sorry about what?"

Ford butted in. "We're taking this case off your hands." He turned and beckoned to a man with a dolly. He pointed at the boxes. "Take em all."

"Wait a minute," Welsh protested. "On whose authority?"

Ford whipped out a piece of paper and thrust it at Welsh. "The Police Commissioner and the Agent-in-Charge. This is a federal case, now."

"What does this mean, Lieutenant?" Thatcher said, as she approached.

"Who are you?"

"Inspector Margaret Thatcher, RCMP," she retorted. "Who are you?"

"Agent Thomas Ford, FBI. Canadian?"

"Yes. Chief consular officer at the Canadian Consulate here in Chicago."

He snapped his fingers. "What's-his-name? The guy in the hat? He work for you?"

"Constable Fraser is my Deputy Liaison Officer," she acknowledged, frostily.

"Lucky you," he smirked. "What a clown!"

Thatcher bristled but held her temper. "What do you mean, you're taking this case?"

Ford ignored her. He addressed the man with the dolly. "That one, too," he said, pointing to a box behind a chair.

With an embarrassed air, Harrison explained, "The whiskey and weapons in the Brannigan warehouse put this matter under federal jurisdiction, specifically the ATF. That's Tyler, here. The possible Nardo connection brings in our Task Force." He lowered his voice. "Mr. Personality here is the coordinator for all of us."

"What about the murders?" Welsh said.

Ford looked at him with derision. "What murders?" He smacked his forehead. "Oh, you mean Vecchio and Fraser? I hear the reports of their deaths are greatly exaggerated." He dug an elbow into the ribs of Tyler, who didn't appear to appreciate the joke.

"I meant Albert Ames and Brian Mosely," Welsh said.

"You got any evidence that connects those unfortunate young men to Frank Nardo or the warehouse?"

Welsh was silent.

"I didn't think so," Ford said. "Let me know when you do." He followed the man with the dolly and the boxes out of the room. Tyler nodded at Welsh and left with him.

Harrison stayed. He turned to Thatcher. "You're the one who got Bobby Vitale to invite you in, right?" At her curt nod, he added, "I read your statement. Gutsy moves."

"Thank you," she said, surprised.

He reached into his pocket and handed her a business card. "I'll need to discuss your statement." He cleared his throat. "Perhaps over dinner one night?"

She looked at the card and then back at him. "All right."

He smiled at her, then turned back to Welsh. "I know this sucks, Harding. I'll do my best to keep you in the loop." He lowered his voice. "Just don't tell Ford."

"Thanks, Joe."

Harrison gave a friendly nod to the rest of the room, then turned to leave.

"Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"You know of any connection between the Nardo organization and Canada? Anything at all?"

Harrison looked thoughtful, then shook his head, slowly. "None. The Toothpick sticks close to home. More than most wiseguys." He left the room, closing the door behind him.

In his wake, the occupants of the room sat silent, deflated.

"Now what?" Elaine said, expressing the thought for all of them.

Welsh rubbed his tired eyes. "We do our jobs. We work the case. You all know what to do." He turned to Elaine. "Don't be discouraged. These guys cook their books. The important stuff wasn't sitting in that warehouse. And it isn't in those boxes the feds carted out of here."

Elaine nodded, and reached up to remove the map from the blackboard. Turnbull moved to help her. Thatcher stood. Welsh helped her into her coat.

"I hope your trip is productive," he said.

"I hope so, too. I'll report in as soon as I can."

"Thank you, Inspector." He sighed wearily. "There's gotta be something ... I don't care what Harrison says ... there's some connection. Something we're missing. Some relationship between Frankie Nardo and Quebec that we're overlooking."

Over his shoulder, Thatcher saw Elaine react. She stiffened, then shook her head slightly. She bent over the table to gather the files spread there.

"Elaine?"

She looked up at Thatcher.

"What were you thinking?"

"What?"

"Just now. What was it?"

"Oh. Nothing. It's nothing."

Welsh was looking at her, quizzically. At the door, Huey and Guardino turned around.

Elaine felt her face get hot as everyone stared at her. She ducked her head and tucked a curl behind one ear. "It's probably nothing."

"Tell us," Turnbull urged. "Don't worry about appearing stupid." He smiled kindly. "I never do."

"Well, sir," she said, emboldened. "That relationship between Frank Nardo and Quebec ... do you mean something besides his wife's sister?"

"His wife's sister?" Welsh echoed.

Elaine looked embarrassed to be the center of everyone's attention. "His sister-in-law, Rosaria Milano. She's a widow. Or rather, was a widow."

"Go on." He reached for a chair and sat down heavily.

"Her name is Rosaria Depardieu now. She married a man named Antoine Depardeau two years ago. They live in Montreal."

Turnbull added, helpfully. "That's in Quebec."

"How do you know this?" Thatcher asked.

"I'm Canadian," he said, surprised.

"I was speaking to Elaine, Constable," she snapped.

"While I was researching the warehouse chain of title, remember? I said the warehouse ownership could be kinda-sorta traced back to Aldo Milano. Rosaria's first husband. But he died five years ago. I came across Rosaria's wedding announcement to Depardieu while I was checking out Aldo."

Welsh exchanged thunderstruck glances with Thatcher. They spoke at the same time.

"Could this be it?" he asked.

"Do you think ...?" Thatcher said, slowly.

"You know, they caught Son of Sam based on a parking ticket," Guardino said, excitedly. "From little chestnuts, mighty oaks grow."

"That's acorns, Louis," Huey corrected.

"I'm sorry, sir. I never thought to mention it before. It just didn't occur to me that it might be important." Elaine was wringing her hands. Turnbull patted her shoulder, awkwardly.

"I wouldn't have thought so either. And, it might not be important. So, let's not get our hopes up, or kick ourselves," Welsh said, though his eyes were gleaming with excitement. "Depardieu. Inspector, do you know the name?"

She shook her head. "As I said, the RCMP does not police Quebec. But, I will find out." There was a glint in her own eyes.

Welsh stood up. "OK, people. Back to work." The room cleared out quickly, the mood dramatically reversed in the last few minutes.

At the door, Thatcher turned back. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

He looked a question at her.

"For keeping the specifics under wraps."

"IJTF business, Inspector." He tapped the side of his nose. "Need to know."

She smiled, then left the room. "Turnbull!"

"Here, sir!" He was helping Elaine carry the files back to her desk.

"The plane leaves in half an hour." She picked up her purse. "Get the car."

"Yes, sir!" He smiled apologetically at Elaine and skedaddled.

Thatcher came over to Elaine. "Good work there, Officer."

"Oh, but I'm not an officer," she protested.

"You will be. And a very good one, too," Thatcher said, then left the squad room.

Elaine was smiling as she sat down at her computer.


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Ray counted the bullets and slapped the clip back into his Glock. With the magazine and the extra clip, he had twenty-eight rounds. The two shots he had fired at Jean and company from the top of the pile of boulders made less than the full count. After his dunk in the pond, he had broken down the gun, cleaned and dried all the parts and oiled them with a bit of engine oil purloined from the yellow snowmobile. Even though he knew that a brief submersion in water shouldn't affect a modern cartridge, it had still made him nervous. He'd have preferred to take a practice shot, but was afraid he'd regret wasting that one bullet if push came to shove.

Fraser had done the same with the .44 he had confiscated from Guy. A full clip held six rounds. Unfortunately, he was down to four after shooting out the truck tires back at the cove. And there was no spare clip. Still, after seeing his shooting at the target range, Ray was confident that Fraser's four shots would count.

It had been eight hours since Ray's impulsive leap of faith. At their estimated speed of 30 mph, they had to be nearing their destination. Or a gas station. Either way, they wanted to be prepared.

Fraser tucked his gun in the back of his jeans and stood up. He stepped up on a couple of boxes they had stacked to make a rough stair, and climbed on to the big crate. Kneeling on it, he grabbed hold of the stainless steel framing that held up the canvas roof, then poked his head through a slit he had cut into the fabric.

Ray stifled a laugh. He couldn't help but picture what it must look like from the outside as a disembodied head poked up through the top of the truck. They had been taking turns doing recon this way. It was the only vantage to see straight ahead without fear of being seen in the side and rear view mirrors by the driver and passenger.

Fraser ducked back inside and clambered down. "I see lights in the distance, Ray."

"A town?"

"No," he said, slowly, "more like an industrial facility. Perhaps a depot."

"End of the line," Ray said, grimly.

"Yes."

The truck made a sharp right turn. They glanced at each other, and took up pre-arranged positions between the crate and the front of the truck. They had made a hiding spot just big enough for the two of them. It would offer temporary concealment to anyone casually peering into the back. The truck ambled on, slower than before. After a few minutes, it rattled to a stop. Bright artificial light filtered in through gaps in the canvas cover.

Even idling, the truck's engine and exhaust system made a helluva racket. Ray strained to hear. He thought he could make out the murmur of voices, but it was too indistinct. He glanced at Fraser. His eyes were closed and he had a look of intense concentration. After a few minutes, the driver put the truck into gear and moved on at a sedate place.

Fraser looked at Ray. "We just passed through a gate into the facility. The driver and what I took to be a guard conversed."

"And?"

"The guard directed him to pull into Garage #5."

"Big place, then."

"Yes. And Ray, the guard said something else. Something that alarmed the driver and Francois."

"What?"

"He said, the boss is here and wants to talk to them."

"What about?"

"The guard wouldn't say. He said he was sticking his neck out to give Andre, that's the driver's name, by the way, the heads up."

"That sounds ominous."

"Both Andre and Francois were quite upset. I'm afraid profanity was employed."

"I bet it's about what happened at the cove."

He looked up. "I think I should take another look."

"Be careful."

Fraser climbed up on the crate and carefully rose through the slit just high enough to see. They had entered a sprawling warehouse complex of low slung buildings and parking lots surrounded by a ten foot high security fence. He could make out part of a large sign, which he quickly translated to English and mentally filled in the blanks:

****** dieu Inc

Distribution Center - Northwest

Trespassers will be prosecuted

Trucks of all shapes and sizes filled the space - some parked, some moving, some being unloaded with forklifts and cranes, a few up on blocks awaiting repair. Despite the late hour, the facility was bustling.

Their truck trundled to a long open-fronted building. Overhead bay doors were all up. As it approached, Fraser saw #05 stenciled on the front. There was room for several trucks, but it was empty of other vehicles or personnel. The truck slowed, and positioned itself to pull in. Fraser turned. Behind him, he could see the road which led up to the facility and terminated at a guardhouse and barrier. As he watched, a black car pulled in at the gatehouse. As the truck pulled slowly into a middle bay, Fraser looked up, high over his head. Then, he ducked down.

"Ray!"

Ray holstered his weapon and climbed up on to the crate. "What?"

Fraser had his knife out. "Help me with this."

Ray grabbed the cut edges of the fabric and ripped as Fraser sawed through it. In moments, they had a large enough opening for a man to climb through. Just then, the truck engine shut down for the first time in eight hours.

Ray peered up through the rip in the canvas. Fluorescent light fixtures dangled over the work bays of the garage, lighting the inside as bright as day. But in the gloom above the fixtures, he could make out the openwork crisscross of trusses and beams which held up the roof. They extended the length of the building. He heard the sound of the truck cab doors opening and closing, almost in tandem, then both sets of footsteps walking to the rear of the truck.

"Go," Fraser urged.

Ray was already moving. He wriggled out of the canvas slit out onto the top of the cab. He peered around the side of the truck. Francois and the driver were standing outside the mouth of the warehouse. They were looking away from the truck toward a rapidly approaching black car. Ray blinked as he recognized it as a 1959 Cadillac Seville in apparent mint condition. The waiting men shifted their feet nervously as they watched it get closer.

"Fraser, get up here," he hissed. Ray took his chance. He stood on tiptoe, reaching over his head for the nearest crossbeam. It was just a few inches out of reach. He hunkered down and launched himself, getting a hand on either side of it. With a stifled grunt, he swung his legs up, wrapped them around the beam, and rolled himself over onto his belly. The steel support beam was about six inches wide. Ray slid forward on it, grabbed a vertical strut and held on tight. He looked around. The men were still fixed on the approaching Caddy and hadn't seen him. He was in the shadowed area, above the dangling fluorescent lights.

Fraser stood on the top of the cab. For a heart-stopping moment, he was illuminated by the headlights of the Caddy as it squealed to a stop in front of Francois and Andre. He froze, fighting the urge to dive for cover. The headlights went out, the engine shut off, and the driver's side door opened. A tall distinguished-looking man exited, and strode quickly to his men, shouting at them in rapid guttural French.

Ray laid the length of his body along the horizontal support and wedged himself firmly in place against the vertical. Then, he reached down with both hands. "Jump!" he hissed.

Fraser jumped and gripped Ray's hand tightly with his left. Ray locked his other hand around his wrist. Fraser kicked his feet, swinging his body back and forth like a gymnast. His momentum swung his legs up and on to the I-beam. Ray held on to him until Fraser seated himself securely, breathlessly nodding his thanks. The rafters above the light fixtures were like a jungle gym. Carefully, quietly, they worked their way up to the highest level of beams and struts and moved so they were not directly over the truck. Ray spotted Fraser the whole way, trying not to seem like he was hovering. At last, they were able to stand upright on a V-shaped truss, holding tight to the crossbeam. This spot, over top of a mechanic's bay, was concealed in the shadows under the roof. It offered a good view of the men below.

Ray put his mouth close to Fraser's ear. "You OK?"

"Yes, thanks." From the safety of his perch, Fraser could at last focus on the conversation below. Or rather, tirade. Cadillac man shouted and gesticulated at the truckers. They stood there, taking it. Obviously, this was the boss.

"What's he saying?"

"He's upset."

Ray rolled his eyes, but the effect was lost in the gloom. "I got that part."

Fraser concentrated, closing his eyes and cupping one ear. "He's chastising Francois for the delay in getting the shipment here; he's angry about the dust-up at the cove; he hasn't heard from Jean; the mysterious men who infiltrated the operation are still unaccounted for - oh, he means us, Ray."

Now, Francois was talking, gesturing broadly with his hands.

Fraser translated: "Francois says it's not his fault; they drove here as fast as possible once Andre delivered the junker; Jean is responsible for catching the mystery men - that's us, again - " He cocked his head. "He has no idea what happened after Jean and the others left on the snowmobiles to chase the mystery men - er, us. He was too busy with loading and unloading."

Mystery men. Ray liked the sound of that.

The Boss started in again. Ray strained to hear, but soon gave up trying to make out the rapid-fire French. Then, he heard something that made his heart skip a beat. "Chicago? Did he just say 'Chicago'?"

Fraser nodded. Then, the Boss gestured roughly to the truck, spat out a string of orders, and stormed off on foot. Francois and the driver stood there, obviously reeling from the tongue-lashing.

"What about Chicago?"

Ray could hear the smile in Fraser's voice. "Apparently, the warehouse in Chicago has been shut down by the police and arrests have been made."

"Yes!" Ray whispered, punching a fist in the air. "Way to go, 27th!"

Fraser shushed him. "The Boss ordered Francois and Andre to get their truck unloaded and the contents secured immediately. In case the police come here."

"Secured? What does that mean?"

"I don't know." Fraser looked around at the large facility and all the hustle and bustle. "But, does it seem to you like an unusually high level of activity for the night shift?"

Ray nodded. "I betcha this place is on red alert." He paused. "But what are the chances of the local cops showing up? Nobody knows about the Chicago connection. Except us."

There was a beeping noise below them as a forklift approached their truck. Three more men joined Francois and Andre. Andre dropped the tailgate of the truck with a loud bang. There was the usual back and forth chatter as the men worked. Ray caught the occasional word or a name. As the first crate was loaded on to the forklift and dropped to floor level, Francois guided it over the opposite side of the warehouse. One man pried open the lid of the crate with a crowbar, then dismantled it, piling the cardboard cartons within on a handcart. Meanwhile, Francois moved to a large piece of equipment sitting on a raised plinth. He bent, fiddling at its base. The machine on its plinth slid smoothly aside, revealing an opening in the floor, big enough for a man to step through.

"These guys sure like their trap doors," Ray commented.

"Yes," Fraser agreed. He peered through the spyglass. Francois stepped into the hole in the floor. From his movement, he was walking down steps. His head disappeared. Then, a light came on down in the hole. He climbed back up the steps and stepped back into the garage.

Francois acted as supervisor, directing the unloading of the contents of the crates and boxes from the truck. Most of the boxes were stacked neatly in a corner of the warehouse. However, others which he designated were taken down into the subterranean storage. The guns and the drugs, no doubt, separated from the innocuous canned goods.

"That's what the boss meant by 'securing' the goods," Ray whispered.

Fraser nodded. "It's a smuggler's cache."

"You think they got cash down there?" he said, surprised.

"Cache, C-A-C-H-E."

"Oh." Ray was surprised that no one seemed to be inventorying the contents as they were unloaded and mentioned that to Fraser.

"Red alert protocols, I suppose. Get the contraband underground as soon as possible. Inventory later."

"Good. Cause when they get to our crate, the count's gonna be a little light," Ray said, worriedly. While on the barge, they had emptied the crate of most of the canned peaches to make room for them to climb in. They had also tossed nearly all of the cocaine, on principle. The last remaining bag was still in there among the remaining boxes of peaches. They had tidied the crate while it was still on the barge, leaving no evidence of their habitation of it for three days, except for the missing cargo. And, the three notches Ray had made in the wood, he thought ruefully. The can of peaches they had consumed earlier today was flattened and tucked into Fraser's pocket. He had stopped Ray from tossing it out the back of the truck, saying, primly, "Don't be a litterbug."

They watched as the operation continued at an orderly pace, the men making steady progress emptying the truck. Taking advantage of the relative safety of their perch, Ray jotted down details of the operation in his notebook. Names, descriptions, vehicle makes, models and plates, etc. Fraser borrowed the pad to sketch the boss man, but gave up after a minute. While he didn't admit it, Ray knew his right arm was bothering him too much to make a credible effort. The acrobatics into the rafters hadn't helped.

Still, they were relatively comfortable up here. And, content to let the warehouse operations wind down. That was the plan. At some point, the place had to settle into relative quiet. They would sneak away under cover of darkness, get outside the fence, and find a phone somewhere without ever alerting these guys to their presence. No heroics necessary. Ray would be satisfied with that. They had followed the trail of clues from Nick's blueberry pancakes to this sprawling complex with its hole in the floor. End of the line.

"I almost bought a '59 Caddy," Ray said, conversationally.

Fraser blinked at the non sequitur. "Oh, is that what that vehicle was?"

Ray rolled his eyes. "Yeah. It's a classic Seville." He paused. "But my heart belongs to the Riv." He yawned and glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight. He looked over at Fraser, tucked into a corner where the vertical and horizontal struts met, barely visible in the shadows. "You think we can take a nap up here?"

"Sure. It's just like sleeping in a tree."

"I've never slept in a tree, Benny."

"The trick, Ray," Fraser said, earnestly, "is not to fall off. Go ahead. I'll take first watch."

Ray looked down. They were positioned high above a mechanics bay with lots of sharp, pointy tools and bulky equipment below. Falling off would not be pretty. He wedged himself as securely as he could into his own corner, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. Fraser shifted to a more comfortable position and watched the unloading of the truck.

"You're really just going to sit here?" his father asked, incredulously.

Fraser, startled, nearly fell off his perch. Giving his father an exasperated look, he muttered, "In case you haven't noticed, we're even more outnumbered than we were on the barge. The intelligent course of action is to lay low until we can slip away. Then, we'll notify the local authorities."

Bob peered over the edge of the girder. "I wouldn't call this 'laying low,' son."

"Very funny, Dad. Now, will you go away?"

Before his father could respond, there was the sound of a commotion outside the building. Fraser got carefully to his feet and leaned out to see around the edge of the building. Ray joined him, extending the spyglass and peering through it. Outside the fence line, a big, burly security guard in full regalia and a barking German Shepherd marched a smaller man ahead of them, toward the guardhouse. The prisoner wore a red parka with a fur lined hood. The hood was up, concealing his face; his gloved hands were clasped on the back of his head. As they approached the guardhouse, the gatekeeper stepped out. The two guards exchanged words, then the gatekeeper lifted the barrier. The guard left the dog at the gatehouse and pushed Red Parka ahead of him. The man stumbled, falling to his knees. The hood of the parka slipped, revealing his face. Or rather, her face.

Ray nearly dropped the spyglass. Inspector Margaret Thatcher was hauled roughly to her feet by the guard. She cried out as he thrust his gun in her back and pushed her forward into the compound. Still stunned by her unexpected appearance, Ray felt movement beside him. He turned. A grim-faced Fraser was climbing down the rafters. Ray lunged for him, barely catching his sleeve. He teetered on the steel beam for a heart-stopping moment, convinced that they were going to fall, before Fraser stopped and steadied them both.

Ray hissed, "Wait, Benny! Benny! We need a _plan_."

"The Yank's right, son," his father said, squinting at him. "What's wrong with you?"

Fraser ignored his father, but carefully hauled himself back up. "Of course, Ray. Sorry," he said, stiffly, not meeting his eyes. "A plan, yes. We need a plan."

Ray gave him a moment, peering at Thatcher's retreating back as she was shoved toward a small building. The same one that the boss man had disappeared into. He looked down and over at the truck. The men had paused, watching the drama playing out with the guard, the dog and the Inspector, but missing the scene over their heads. Francois urged them back to work. They were nearly finished the job. Another five, ten minutes, tops.

Peering down at the unloading activities, Ray said, "They're almost finished down there." He paused, then said, lightly, "You can't go running off half-cocked like that, Benny."

"I wasn't half-cocked," he protested, but without much conviction.

"Well, you can't run off fully cocked, either," he quipped.

"What does that –?" he said, quizzically. Then, he flushed. "Don't be ridiculous, Ray."

"The guard took her to see the boss man. I think they'll question her first. That should give us a little time."

"First?"

"Before they do anything ... drastic," he replied. At Fraser's stricken look, Ray took pity on him and said no more.

Bob Fraser, however, flicked his gaze suspiciously back and forth between them, then peered speculatively at his son, who was looking everywhere else but at him. After a moment, he said, "Well, I'll say it if you won't. What in heaven's name is she doing here?"

Fraser hadn't a clue. It was Ray who supplied the answer. "I guess she got your note, Benny."


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Meg was hustled up the steps of a small building, the gun digging into the small of her back. The big gorilla pushed her at the top and she tripped over the doorjamb, stumbled, and recovered. When she looked up, she found herself in the type of office she would expect for a distributor's warehouse. Utilitarian, cluttered, and small. A handsome older man with black hair, silver at the temples, sat behind the desk. He was speaking into a telephone.

"Yes, he's here with her now." He hung up the phone, warily eying Thatcher. He spoke to the guard. "What happened, Henri?" His rich baritone spoke Quebecois-accented French.

"I found her snooping around the east entrance, Boss," the guard answered in the same language. He was a big man, tall and wide, with the build of a professional boxer or wrestler about him.

Meg drew herself up to her full height and tugged her parka down around her hips. She tried to exude authority even as she worked to still her racing heart. "I wasn't snooping around anything, m'sieu," she said, with asperity, in their tongue. "This ... gentleman ..." She gave the guard a nasty look. "He set his dog on me entirely without justification and dragged me here against my will."

"Who are you?" the older man asked, in English. Her accent must have tipped him off.

"Who are you?" she shot back.

He stood and walked around the desk. With a chivalrous bow, he said, "Pardon my manners, mademoiselle. I am Antoine Depardieu, the proprietor of this establishment. May I have the pleasure?"

"Margaret Thatcher," she said, then at his surprised look, added, "not that one."

"Obviously," he said, with amusement. Then, he startled her by taking her hand, and kissing it in the French manner. "Please, have a seat, mademoiselle."

She hesitated, then sat. She brushed the hair out of her eyes and gave him a defiant look.

He resumed his seat behind the desk and looked up at the guard. "Henri?"

Henri spoke in rapid French. The air of menace he exuded lessened in his employer's presence. Obviously ill at ease, he said, "I was patrolling the perimeter like I'm supposed to do, eh? When Caesare starts barking and going crazy, eh? I let him off the leash and he ran into the scrub along the east entrance, by the road, eh? Flushed her right out, he did, like a quail, eh? I asked her what she was doing there and she said it was none of my business. She had these, eh." He handed over a pair of binoculars. "And this." He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and set it on the desk.

The boss glanced at the items, then picked up the cell phone. "Go on," he said, as he fiddled with the buttons.

"Well, I kept asking her who she was and how she got there, didn't I? She kept yapping, telling me that it was none of my business, that she hadn't done anything against the law, and so on. You get the idea, eh. Well, I figured I should bring her in, what with everything that's going on around here, eh? That's when she hit me." He gestured to his cheek, which was already swelling. He laughed, nastily. "That was her mistake, eh? Caesare had her down in no time flat. Good dog, that. He'd have ripped her throat out if I hadn't called him off, eh?" He rubbed his cheek, and glared at Thatcher. She glared right back.

The boss directed his piercing gaze at Thatcher. "I apologize for the rough treatment, Mam'selle. But, it does appear that you were trespassing. And, with these," he touched the binoculars. "we can add spying to the list, n'est ce pas?"

"I was not trespassing," she said, firmly. "I was on the public road."

"Ah, but that is where you are mistaken. It is a private road."

"It's not marked as such," she protested.

"The sign blew down in that nasty storm last week." He shrugged. "Nevertheless, what were you doing there?"

Thatcher leaned forward, trying to look earnest and appealing. She smiled her sweetest smile. "I was lost."

"Lost? Where were you trying to go?"

"The Abbey at Saint Jean Baptiste." She looked embarrassed. "I'm not from around here, and I have a terrible sense of direction. When I saw the road with the lights in the distance, I thought it was the road to the Abbey. When I got close, I knew it wasn't. I thought I would ask for directions, but, when I came to the fence, the gate was closed and there was no one there to speak to. I took the binoculars from my luggage to look for another entrance or access point or some way to make contact as I walked along. I had gone a good distance from my car when ..." She gave the guard another sharp look. "That's when he and his miserable dog came along. I tried to tell him I was lost, and needed directions. He wouldn't listen to me." She lifted her chin. "I apologize if I was trespassing, but I do not like to be manhandled."

The man chuckled appreciatively. "I shall remember that. What is your reason for visiting the Abbey at this late hour?"

"A retreat. I'm afraid my flight was late getting into North Bay, and then I got lost ..." She trailed off.

"Ah, of course. You must be cold." He gestured to a carafe and mugs on a table behind his desk. "Would you care for some coffee?"

Thatcher blinked, then smiled. "Yes. Merci." She leaned forward to take the offered mug. "M'sieu Depardieu," she began.

"Antoine."

She smiled, ingratiatingly. "Antoine. What is this place?"

He gestured with his hands. "My Northwest Distribution Center."

"Distribution center. What do you distribute?"

"Oh, this and that. Mostly food. Canned fruits and vegetables, soup, pasta sauce and the like. Our territory extends across six provinces and up into the Arctic Circle," he said, proudly, pointing over his shoulder to a large map with color-coded markings showing truck routes.

"Oh, my," she said, admiringly. She sipped her coffee. "Is the coffee one of your products?"

"Yes, do you like it?"

"It's excellent, Antoine."

"I'm pleased, Mam'selle."

"Meg, please," she said, with a flirtatious smile.

"Perhaps, I will see you again before you go home. Where is that, by the way?"

"Toronto. But I travel a lot," she lied. "I'll be at the Abbey several days. Perhaps, we will meet again." She drained her cup. "I thank you for the coffee, Antoine. But now that we have this matter straightened out, I'd like to get on my way. As you said, it's very late and I am expected." She stood up.

"Sit down, Meg." He nodded at the guard who was standing behind her. He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back in her seat. Depardieu took a breath. "I'm afraid that you will not be going anywhere, cheri."

"But, Antoine! You can't hold me here against my will! If you don't believe me, then call the police and we'll get this straightened out!"

"I will not call the police."

"Then I will!" She reached for her cell phone, but he snatched it away from her. She reached for the desk phone, but the guard pulled her back. "This is outrageous!"

Depardieu leaned back in his chair and gave her a speculative look. "You were quite convincing, Meg. But for one or two little details."

"Of course, I'm convincing!" she said, hotly. "I"m telling the truth."

"Well, no, you aren't." He looked amused. "We are on very good terms with our neighbors at the Abbey. In fact, I have been on retreat there myself. Very restful, I assure you. However, while the Abbey's facilities are quite modern, the brothers adhere to a very conservative, traditional order."

"Yes, I know that," she bluffed.

"Then you should know that no women are allowed. Not on the staff, not on retreat, not ever. The brothers desire to pursue a higher calling, free from the temptations of the flesh." He gave her an appreciative glance. "And you would be quite a temptation, cheri."

"But, m'sieu, there are exceptions to any rule," she said, placatingly. "My brother happens to be a ... uh ... brother there–"

"Meg, Meg," he said, shaking his head. "Do not bother." He picked up the cell phone and pressed a button. "Clever devices, n'est ce pas? They store so much information at our beck and call. So to speak." He looked at the screen and scrolled with his thumb. "Home, the Consulate, Turnbull, Sophisticated Lady Salon, Ralph's Pizzeria, all in the 312 area code." His expression grew cold. "I believe that is the code for Chicago, is it not?"

"So? I told you I travel a lot." She managed to keep the desperation out of her voice, though it was clawing at her throat.

He smiled gently. He really was quite a handsome man. That made the smile all the more chilling. "You are a very attractive woman when you are cornered. And I will enjoy getting to know you better." He spoke softly, almost seductively. "Let us start over, cheri -"

A huge boom outside rattled the windows in the office. Depardieu, Thatcher and the guard jumped, then looked in the direction of the sound. In the sudden silence that followed, Depardieu sprang to his feet, Meg's cell phone still clutched in his hand. He opened the center drawer of his desk and extracted a handgun. "Stay here and keep an eye on her!" he told Henri, before running out. Now, Meg could hear men shouting outside.

The guard took out his gun and held it on her. He alternated rubbing his cheek and staring at her, and turning his head toward the commotion outside. Thatcher tensed, waiting for a moment of distraction to launch herself at him. He seemed to realize that, and pointed the gun at her face. He removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt. Then, still keeping her in his sights, handed them to her, and said, "Put one cuff on your wrist and the other on the leg of your chair." He kept his distance while she did as instructed. She cuffed her left hand, and bent to cuff the other end to the bottom of the chair leg.

"Non," he said, sharply. "I changed my mind. Not the chair. To the desk. There."

She reluctantly snapped the cuff to the metal leg of the big desk. She had hoped he wouldn't notice that cuffing her to the chair would have allowed her to tip it over and slide the cuff off the leg in one swift movement. He was sharper than he looked.

He checked the cuffs. Satisfied, he went to the window at the front of the office and peered through the venetian blinds. Thatcher sat there, slightly hunched in the seat. The cuffs weren't long enough for her to sit straight. She wasn't sure she could move the desk at all, certainly not without alerting him. She looked on the desktop for anything she could use as a weapon. There wasn't much - papers, files, the telephone console. No handy letter-opener in the shape of a sword, or even a container of pens. Antoine Depardieu practiced a clean desk policy. She twisted in the chair, trying to see what was going on outside. All she could make out were people running and shouting and a distant orange glow.

There was a polite knock on the door. Thatcher and Henri exchanged glances, then he crossed to the door and opened it. He blinked at the odd figure on the threshold. It was a tall man in greasy orange coveralls, wearing a welder's mask.

"The Boss sent me," he said, in French, his voice muffled by the helmet.

The guard let him in, then closed the door behind him. The other man glanced around quickly, then stared at Thatcher a long moment. At least, she supposed he was staring at her. The helmet covered his face and head. She could see nothing behind the dark, smoked glass of the visor. She had a nearly overwhelming urge to chant, "Klaatu Borata Nikto" at him. She stifled the giggle which rose in her throat, shocked at herself. There was nothing funny about her current predicament. Nothing funny at all.

The guard said, "Take off that helmet." He pointed the gun at the man.

"Certainment," he said, reaching up. He whipped it off in one fluid movement that ended with the helmet impacting Henri's jaw. Henri staggered back, but didn't fall. Or drop the gun.

Meg couldn't believe her eyes. Klaatu was Fraser. His hair was matted, his face dirty, and he had the beginnings of a scruffy beard, but it was Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, in the flesh.

Fraser lunged at the guard, landing several quick hard blows with his left. The gun flew from Henri's grasp. Despite the surprise attack, the guard wasn't going down easy. He landed several blows of his own, using both fists in rapid fire. He moved like a boxer. And punched like a mule. They grappled around the room, knocking into furniture and walls, making a mess of the small office.

Meg had seen Fraser in close-quarters fighting. He was good at it. But to her surprise, Henri was getting the better of him. He kept pummeling Fraser's right arm and shoulder while blocking her deputy's left hooks. Then, Henri grabbed that arm and twisted, hard. Fraser cried out in pain and stumbled. Henri pressed his advantage, pulling the arm up behind Fraser's back. He staggered. Taking advantage of that, the guard swept him into a chokehold. Fraser struggled to throw him off, or break the hold, but he was rammed against the side of the desk, his movements limited. Henri bent over him, using his greater weight to bear him down.

Meg watched in horror as Fraser's legs buckled. She screamed, "Stop! You'll kill him!" She lashed out with a foot trying to kick the guard, but managed only to knock Fraser's leg out from under him. He fell to his knees, the guard following him down, but maintaining his hold. Meg was close enough now to touch them if her left hand was free. She struggled against the handcuff, shoved against the heavy desk, tried to pull her arm free, to no avail. Fraser's face was darkening, suffusing with blood, his mouth open, as he struggled for air. His left hand scrabbled weakly at Henri's face and arm. His eyelids fluttered.

"No!" she screamed. I can't watch you die, she thought. I won't! She shifted her gaze away, freeing her thoughts from their paralysis. She seized the telephone with her right hand and snatched up the console. She brought it down on the guard's head with all her strength. Once, twice, three times. He collapsed on top of Fraser, then rolled off him to the other side of the desk.

Fraser was on his knees, doubled over, head bowed. He gasped and coughed, pulling in huge lungfuls of air. She strained as far toward him as the cuffs allowed. At last, he lifted his head. They were inches apart as she looked into his blue eyes.

"You got my note," he said, hoarsely, his hand rubbing his Adam's apple.

"I got your note," she whispered. They continued to stare at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

"Are you alone?"

"Alone?" she murmured. "Yes, I have been for a long time."

He blinked. "I meant, sir, do you have backup with you?"

She straightened abruptly, her eyes narrowing as her face reddened. "No, Constable. I'm here alone. There's no cavalry coming over the hill." She rattled the handcuff chain, and snapped. "Now, get the key!" She gestured to the downed guard.

"Yes, sir," Fraser coughed out, then crawled to the guard. He rummaged through his pockets, finding the key ring and the key on the second try. He quickly uncuffed her.

She helped him turn Henri over and snapped the cuffs on his limp wrists, trying not to look at the bloody mess she had made of the man's head. She found his gun on the floor, put the safety back on, then tucked it in the pocket of her parka.

Fraser pulled a short length of rope from his pocket, and wrapped it around the guard's ankles, cinching it tightly. Together, they dragged him behind the desk, propping him up to ease his ragged breathing.

"Shouldn't we gag him?"

Fraser shook his head. "I'm afraid he might suffocate."

"He tried to kill you, Fraser!"

"Yes, sir," he said, confused at the _non sequitur_. Then, he looked at her closely. "Are you alright?" He coughed. "Able to travel?"

"Yes," she said, then peering at him. "Are you?"

"I'm fine." He managed a crooked, but unconvincing, smile. His color was improving as he pulled in air with a rasping noise, but he was still pale. And, he was favoring his right arm.

"What are you doing here?!"

"That's not important, sir. What is important -" A coughing fit stopped him.

She finished the thought. "What is important is getting out of here and alerting the local authorities." She looked at the ruins of the telephone console grimly. Still on her knees behind the desk, she picked up the broken receiver and put it to her ear just to be sure. But, it was dead. The speaker phone buttons elicited the same non-response. She looked around the small room. No other phone. She checked the drawers. Nothing.

Fraser had regained his voice. "Do you have your mobile phone with you, sir?"

"He took it." She gestured at the door. "Depardieu." She looked at Henri.

"He had a radio."

Fraser silently held up a walkie-talkie. Or rather, a piece of it. It had been smashed in the struggle between the two men.

She stood. "Let's get out of here."

Fraser placed his left hand on the desk and pushed himself slowly to his feet. He wobbled a bit. She grabbed his right arm to steady him. At his hiss of pain, she quickly let go. Before she could speak, he lurched to the window. He peered out between the blinds. "They're coming," he said, at the sight of the boss, followed by four security guards heading this way. He quickly locked the door, pushed a chair under the knob, and rejoined her.

"I think that's a bathroom there," she said, pointing. "Perhaps, there's a window."

They pushed their way into the bathroom, which contained a shower, toilet and sink in a compact space. There was a small window on the wall opposite the door, above the toilet. She rushed to it, undid the lock, and slid it up. Cold air rushed in. It was going to be a tight fit for her. She stuck her head out. The drop was short. No more than six feet. It was dark back here behind the building. She checked both ways, but no one was watching. She pulled her head back in and looked at Fraser. "The coast looks clear, but, Fraser, I don't think you'll fit –"

"Go," he said, from the door. The men were still outside, but they'd try to open the office door at any moment. "I'll follow."

There was no choice. She stripped off the parka and dropped it through the

open window, then wriggled her back end through. She landed on her feet, snatched up the parka and shrugged into it.

He wrapped a towel around his left hand, then turned to the window. He smashed the glass, then ripped out the wooden framing. He launched himself feet first. His hips snagged and he was stuck.

Thatcher grabbed his legs and yanked. He grunted, but after several tugs, he tumbled out the rest of the way. She yanked him roughly to his feet, frantic at the sound of shouting men inside the office. He got his bearings, and pulling her with him, dashed away from the building in a running crouch over open ground. They concealed themselves behind a small utility shed. When she caught her breath, she asked, "What's wrong with your arm?"

"I fell off a snowmobile."

"You should be more careful, Fraser."

"Yes, sir."

Staying to the shadows, they flitted from hiding spot to hiding spot in a roundabout manner, using buildings, sheds, construction vehicles, equipment, rubbish bins. anything that offered concealment. It was difficult to avoid detection. The facility was in an uproar. Men were rushing about, in what, at first glance, looked liked chaos. In reality, she saw they were deploying to fight the fire or secure the premises or, perhaps, look for her. Thatcher saw Caesare barking furiously at the gatehouse as he struggled against his lead. She thought the jig was up at one utility shed, when four men in a jeep squealed to a stop in front of it. But, they loaded firefighting equipment and dashed off without seeing them crouched behind it.

As they moved, Fraser filled her in on the escape plan he and Ray had hatched up in the rafters. Ray had created the diversion in the opposite direction, while Fraser had freed Thatcher. Their rendezvous point was a small parking lot in the middle of the facility, apparently used by the employees, where Ray would hotwire a vehicle. They'd race for the far end of the compound, and, if necessary, ram through the fence, and go for help.

"We have no idea where we are, sir. Can you advise –?" He never finished that sentence.

Gunshots! Fraser and Thatcher froze behind a stack of wooden pallets, but they were not under fire. Fraser closed his eyes and listened. Two guns trading fire. One of them was a Glock. Behind them and to the left. He turned to Thatcher and spoke rapidly.

"The parking lot is 200 yards due north," he pointed. She followed his finger and nodded, seeing the cars parked in neat rows in the distance. "Keep low. I'll meet you there in five minutes." He looked at her. "If I'm not there in ten, make your way to the far fence and get out."

"What is it?"

"Ray." Then, he was gone.

Meg took a breath and looked at the parking lot in the distance. She looked around, saw she was unobserved, and dashed away.


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Fraser slid behind a stack of equipment like he was sliding into home plate. He was backtracking the route he and the Inspector had just taken. They had hidden behind this same stack on the way to the employee parking lot. He picked up a tool box and hoisted it on to his left shoulder. Then, he stepped out of the shadows in a purposeful manner. In his greasy orange coveralls, he resembled many of the men he had seen rushing about the facility. He followed the sound of gunfire, unchallenged. It led him back to the garage/warehouse where their decrepit truck had been unloaded. Ray would have had to pass this structure on the way to the rendezvous site.

There he was, crouched near the front of the garage, behind a pile of used truck tires. Two men had him pinned down. The one to his right had good cover, able to stand erect behind a heavy duty generator cart. The one to the left knelt behind a row of barrels of waste oil. Ray couldn't move without one of them picking him off. Fraser strode confidently toward the closer man, the one behind the generator. Neither of the two men was looking behind, focused as they were on Ray.

Fraser called to the man behind the generator, in French. "Hey, what's happening?"

The man turned his head and waved at him. "Get down, you idi-!" Fraser tossed the toolbox in his face. He went down. Fraser rushed to take his place, diving for cover as the man behind the barrels fired at him. He scooped up the fallen man's gun. It was a .38 revolver. He checked the cylinder. Three bullets left. He rifled through the unconscious man's pockets. No spare ammunition. He poked his head up.

Ray, one hand shielding his eyes, was peering out into the yard. The garage lights were bright, fully illuminating him, but spoiling his night vision for the darker yard. He knew something had happened, but couldn't see what.

"Ray!" Fraser yelled, then ducked as two more shots came his way. The man behind the waste barrels squeezed the trigger on a now empty gun. Then, he looked somewhere behind Fraser, and pointed at his position. Fraser dove for the dirt an instant before a slug from that direction hit the generator. Fraser rolled and fired instinctively at the shooter who was on top of a trailer. Pain shot through his right arm and shoulder and he missed his aim. But, in reaction to the shot, the gunman lost his footing and fell to the ground with a scream that ended abruptly as he landed, head first, on the ground. Fraser rolled and aimed at the man crouched behind the waste oil barrels. He threw down his empty gun and raised his hands. Fraser jerked a thumb behind him, and the man ran away as fast as his legs would carry him.

"Benny!" Ray called. "Look out!"

Too late, Fraser saw another man leaning over the hood of the truck that was up on blocks. He had Fraser in his sights. He froze, bracing for the impact of the bullet, when the man crumpled and slid out of sight. Inspector Thatcher's face appeared where the man's had been. She tossed away the brick she had hit him with.

Ray made his move, dashing out from behind his flimsy cover, intending to get out into the yard to Fraser, where at least he had a chance of escape. But a sudden barrage of gunfire forced him back. Slugs tore into the tires, shredding them. Hands over his head, Ray retreated, running full out into the garage and dove behind a big machine on the left as bullets sprayed the interior, bouncing off the floor, the tools and metal columns that held up the roof.

Fraser spotted the new gunman. He shifted the .38 to his left hand, and took careful aim. He had told Ray the truth. He wasn't as good a shot with his left. But, neither was he a bad shot. When he wasn't semiconscious and trapped under a snowmobile, that is. He fired twice. The first shot forced the shooter to turn his way, the second took him in the shoulder. He went down, clutching his gun arm, and scuttled away in retreat. The .38 was empty and Fraser discarded it. He heard a shot to his right. Thatcher had shot at another man, who retreated from her line of fire behind a stack of cinder blocks. In the brief lull, Ray rested his back against the big machine and caught his breath. Now, that he was close, he could see it was a drill press. Solid and heavily built, it was bolted into the concrete plinth that rested over the hole in the floor, sealing the smuggler cache completely. If Ray hadn't seen it swing open with his own eyes, he would never know there was a cellar underneath him.

Fraser assessed the situation quickly. For the moment, Ray was safe enough, with the walls of the warehouse protecting his rear and flanks, and the drill press shielding him from the front. But Fraser's own position was becoming increasingly vulnerable. More men would be responding to the alarm. They'd be coming up behind them. He and Thatcher would be sitting ducks.

"You're in a pickle, son," his father commented.

He ignored him, thinking furiously. They were outnumbered, outgunned and rapidly running out of options. And bullets.

Thatcher assessed the situation from her position behind the truck. The gunfire would be drawing more men to the fray. Vecchio's position, defensible in the short term, was, in fact, a deathtrap. She and Fraser wouldn't fare much better. Not if they stayed here. They had a window of opportunity. While the incoming reinforcements would be focused on Vecchio in the brightly lit garage, she and Fraser could take advantage of the confusion and the shadows and maybe slip away.

"He can't get out, son," Bob Fraser said, quietly. "You can't get him out."

"I can't leave him," he said, grimly.

"You have a responsibility to her, too, you know," Bob said, nodding toward Thatcher. She was looking behind her, scanning for reinforcements.

Fraser caught her attention. He gestured to her, then pointed away toward the parking lot, motioning with the gun that he'd cover her.

She shook her head, vigorously, gesturing for him to join her. She'd cover him.

Before he could respond, Fraser spotted a crouching man sneaking up on the exterior left wall of the garage. If he got to the window, he'd easily pick Ray off from behind. There was a transmission hoisted up on a tripod above the man. Fraser fired the .44. It blew away one of the legs of the tripod and the transmission came crashing down on the man's foot. He went down, howling. On the other side of the garage, two men were creeping toward the right wall and that window in a similar move. There was a stack of pipe against the exterior wall, held in place with metal clamps. Fraser fired twice, obliterating the clamps. The pipes cascaded down with an incredible din, and, like an avalanche, rolled into the men, knocking them off their feet, and the guns out of their hands. They scuttled away on hands and knees.

In the brief respite, Ray poked his head up. He looked in Fraser's direction and shrugged eloquently. He knew he'd taken refuge in a stupid place. He'd had no choice. He pointed at Fraser, then in the direction of the parking lot, motioning with the gun that he would cover him. "Go," he mouthed.

At that moment, the black '59 Caddy that Ray had admired raced toward them. It pulled to a stop behind them and to their right. Meg saw Depardieu and four other men jump out and dash for position behind a block wall about 20 yards away from her position. With a sinking feeling, she realized the escape route to the parking lot was blocked.

But Fraser saw an opportunity. He yelled, "Ray! The cache! The cache!"

Ray looked puzzled. He cupped one hand to his mouth and shouted back. "Catch what?"

Using an outsize gesture, Fraser pointed down.

Ray grinned, bent, and fumbled at the base of the big machine. A shot ricocheted off the drill press just over his head, where he had been standing a moment before. Thatcher returned fire at that gunman, winging him. Ray found the button and triggered the mechanism. The plinth that held the drill press slid smoothly to one side, with him on it. He gave Fraser a big thumbs up.

Fraser pointed to Thatcher, then to himself. He held up three fingers as if counting and shook them at her, then pointed to her and himself again, making a running motion with two fingers. She nodded her understanding. Ray gave him the thumbs up again. He was jacking in a new clip. Fraser kept it to himself that he had one shot left.

Beside him, his father frowned. "Not the Caddy, son. That's a classic."

Fraser ignored him. He counted one-two-three with his fingers. Ray did the same and fired several shots. Meg was already in motion, sliding around the hood of the truck. Fraser gave her a two second head start, then he fired his last round into the Cadillac, just below the gas spout. He had never read the owners manual for a 1959 Cadillac Seville. But he was very familiar with the specs for a Smith and Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum revolver, the most powerful handgun in the world.

The explosion catapulted the Cadillac into the air. The noise was tremendous, deafening. It resonated in his chest cavity. Even though he had expected it, the sheer volume still took him by surprise. He got to his feet. The heat of the explosion pressed against his back as he raced after Thatcher. Ray stood, open-mouthed, watching as the Caddy, or what was left of it, came back to earth. From the corner of his eye, Fraser saw another shooter, hidden behind a pallet of cement sacks, swivel away from the spectacle of the explosion and turn back to the garage. He spotted the Inspector running full tilt toward Ray. He raised his gun arm and took careful aim at her back. Fraser threw his empty gun at him, knowing he was too far away to actually hit him, but hoping to spoil his aim. It worked and the shooter pulled up. Fraser put on a burst of speed.

"Ray!" he yelled, but he couldn't even hear himself over the ringing in his ears.

But, Ray had seen the man. He aimed, but didn't shoot. Thatcher was in the line of fire.

"Get down!" Ray yelled, motioning to her to drop. Not understanding, she lowered her head, but kept coming.

Suddenly, Fraser was there, throwing himself between Thatcher and the shooter, thrusting his arms out, making himself as big a target as possible. It worked. Ray watched in horror as Fraser was knocked off his feet by the bullet and propelled forward into Thatcher, tripping her. She fell to her knees. Ray's line of fire was clear. He didn't hesitate.

Meg pushed herself to her feet. Beside her, Fraser, on hands and knees, looked dazed. They were only fifteen feet from Vecchio. He pointed violently at a hole in the floor near his feet, then stepped out from behind the machine. She got an arm under Fraser's shoulder and propelled them both forward as Vecchio passed her, firing continuously, covering them. She was just a few feet shy of the opening in the floor, when Vecchio barreled into her and Fraser like a linebacker, sweeping them off their feet. A hail of bullets sailed high over their heads where they had been an instant before.

They missed the stairs entirely. Fraser landed first. As he hit the cement floor, the wind was knocked out of him. His head was flung back violently on the hard surface and he saw stars. Then, as Meg landed on top of him, whatever air he had left in his lungs whooshed out. Her head hit his with a clunk. His head reconnected with the concrete. He saw more stars. In the next instant, Ray landed on her, driving the air out of her lungs, and smacking her head with his, rocketing her into Fraser's head. He hit the floor again. The stars winked out.

On the top of the pile, Ray recovered first. Rolling off Thatcher, he scrabbled to his feet. In the dim light coming in from above, he saw the motor mechanism that opened and closed the trap door from this side. He hit the button, and the plinth slid smoothly back in place, leaving them in darkness. He groped his way back to the pile of bodies. He could hear Thatcher gasping for air. He pawed at her, grabbing the gun out of her hand. His was empty. He rolled her roughly aside, then groped for Fraser.

His friend lay motionless on his back. Ray fumbled at the coveralls. He had seen Fraser put it in one of his pockets – there! He flicked the penlight on. Thatcher was on her hands and knees, heaving for breath. Ray rushed halfway up the stairs, and shot out the motor that operated the plinth. He shoved at the heavy base to be sure. That baby wasn't moving without some heavy equipment to help it. He descended the stairs and found the light switch at the base. He flicked it on, saying, "That ought to buy us a little time – " He stared in shock.

The Dragon Lady had Fraser locked in a kiss. Ray's grin faded as he realized his mistake. She was performing artificial respiration. He sprinted, skidding to his knees beside them. Fraser's eyes were closed. His head was tilted back, chin thrust high. Thatcher pinched his nose and breathed into his mouth. Ray fumbled at Fraser's collar for a pulse. It was there. He rapidly searched for a bullet wound. The bullet had come from the back, just like before ... Ray looked for the telltale pool of blood under his friend, but it was hard to see in the dim lighting.

Fraser gasped. Thatcher sat back on her haunches, pushing the hair out of her eyes and taking several deep breaths for herself. Ray laid a hand on Fraser's chest and felt the shallow rise and fall as he breathed on his own. He checked his pulse again. It was stronger.

Ray reached under Fraser's shoulders, turning him. "He was hit back there," he told Thatcher. He didn't tell her the slug was meant for her. Still gasping, she got to her knees and helped turn Fraser over. Ray found the bullet hole in the filthy coveralls. "Here!" He poked a finger through the rip in the fabric. There was no blood. Puzzled, he ripped the hole bigger. He could see a corresponding rip in the back pocket of Fraser's jeans, but again no blood. There was something in the pocket, though. He extracted the flattened, folded can that Fraser had refused to toss out on to the highway that morning. Ray stared at it.

"What is that?"

Ray was speechless. Thatcher grabbed it from him, turning it over in her hands. When she spoke, her voice was incredulous.

"The bullet hit this and bounced off?"

He could only nod. She was staring at him, uncertainly.

"Is this a flattened can ... of peaches? What is he doing with a can of peaches in his pocket?"

"Maybe," Ray chortled, "he was just happy to see you?" The look she shot him was priceless. He howled with laughter. She ignored him and continued examining Fraser. Except for the hole in his pants, she could find no sign of a bullet wound. She palpated the back of his head. He was going to have a big lump there. Her own head ached, front and back. She gently turned him on to his back.

"I think I kneed him in the diaphragm when I landed. And then, when you landed on me ..." She put an ear to Fraser's lips. "He seems to be breathing OK now."

Ray couldn't speak, but managed a nod. In his wildest dreams, he had never imagined a scenario where he and Fraser would be part of a Dragon Lady sandwich. Fresh paroxysms of laughter seized him. If he didn't stop this, he might very well die laughing. Even that thought was hilarious.

"Will you stop that, Detective?" she snapped.

But he couldn't. He was helpless, flat on his ass, holding his ribs, tears rolling down his cheeks. He wanted to ask her what she was doing here, thank her for what she did to Fraser, bum a candy bar off her, anything. But everything she said or did set off new waves of hilarity.

She ignored him. Grabbing the penlight, she shone it into Fraser's eyes. She was no expert, but both pupils seemed to react equally. That was a good thing, she thought. At least, it was on the TV shows. She breathed a sigh of relief, then turned her attention to their surroundings.

She didn't know what she expected when Vecchio pointed to the opening in the floor of the warehouse. Some kind of cellar, she supposed. But, it was that and more. They were in a square room, about thirty by thirty feet. It ended in a wall behind them at the stairs and opened into a corridor at the other end. Illumination was provided by a crude arrangement of lightbulbs strung on wire, which were tacked to the ceiling and out into the corridor. This was no root cellar, roughly dug out of the dirt. It screamed old industrial. Cement floor, cinder block walls, institutional green paint. She could see recesses in the ceiling. Fluorescent light fixtures had once been seated there, but had been stripped out. Along every wall and out into the corridor were stacked boxes and crates in high, neat rows, three deep in this room. Above her head, she heard a muffled pounding as the men with guns tried to get in. She narrowed her eyes at the laughing hyena across from her.

"Will you stop?!"

Ray shook his head, helplessly. He was trying to, he really was. They needed to figure out their next move. But his relief that the three of them were still alive was so great, and the circumstances he found himself in so ... so ... so Fraser-like, that he couldn't. He just couldn't.

Wham! Her slap rocked his head to one side so hard that his neck hurt. He stared at Thatcher in shock as his hand stole to his stinging cheek and split lip.

"What the hell?!"

"You've stopped," she said, matter of fact. "Now, take the flashlight and reconnoiter. We don't know where that corridor goes or who may be coming down it!"

Ray went from hysterical laughter to white-hot anger in the space of thirty seconds. "Who died and put you in charge, lady?"

"Hopefully, no one." Her look was icy, her tone glacial. "But we're in _my_ country, now, Detective. And I am ranking officer here." She fixed him with a steely glare. "Now, move it, mister!" she snapped.

Ray moved. He told himself he was going to anyway. After all, she wasn't wrong. Somebody had to scout ahead, and somebody had to stay with the unconscious man. He had been about to tell her to remain behind while he investigated the tunnel. Damn straight, he told himself. She had just caught him off-guard. The "yes, sir" had been reflex. Pure reflex. Doesn't mean diddly-squat.


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Ray trotted back down the tunnel to the square room, then skidded to a stop. The space where he had left Thatcher and Fraser was empty. He looked down at the floor, then walked over to the stacks of boxes against one wall and leaned over.

Thatcher was crouched beside Fraser in the narrow space between the wall and the boxes. She pointed Henri's gun up at him, but slid it into her pocket as she recognized Ray. "I thought it best to take cover," she said, defensively. She stood up.

"Good thinking," Ray said, "you'd have fooled em for all of two seconds." He pointed out the tracks on the dusty floor left by Fraser's boots as she'd dragged him behind the boxes. He leaned over. "How's he doing?"

"Fine. I mean, he's still out. But his breathing seems stable."

Ray knelt beside him in the tight space and patted his cheek. "Hey, buddy. Wake up."

"I tried that," she said, in irritation. "I heard his head hit the floor. Several times." She added, "I think he may be concussed."

"Ya think?" Ray stood. "OK. This corridor extends at least a thousand feet ahead."

"Any indication of where it might lead?"

"Yeah, there are street signs," he said. She narrowed her eyes at his sarcasm. "No. It just keeps going in the dark. These lights extend only about a hundred feet." He looked over his shoulder as a loud clang sounded above. "I think we'd better go." He bent, and grabbed Fraser's left arm to hoist him in a fireman's carry.

She stopped him. "I don't think we should move him."

"We have to. He can't stay here."

"They're probably coming at us from the other end of the tunnel. At least here, we're not right out in the open. We can defend this position."

"With what? We got one gun and a handful of bullets."

"Three," she said.

"Three what?"

"Three bullets."

"Three bullets," he muttered, then exploded, "In case you haven't noticed, Sundance, that's the entire Mexican army out there!"

She said, stiffly. "Perhaps, help will arrive before it comes to that."

Ray brightened. "Tell me the Mounties are on the way!"

"We don't have jurisdiction in Quebec."

"The Surete is coming?"

She shook her head.

"Diefenbaker?"

"No."

Ray frowned. "Tell me somebody knows you're here, at least."

She looked uncomfortable and didn't answer.

He threw up his hands in disgust. "Oh, for crying out loud! You come charging in here with no backup, no firepower, no wolf, and nobody even knows you're here!"

She said, hotly, "As if you didn't disappear for five days leaving nothing but that ridiculous note!"

"That was not my fault!"

_Somewhere ..._

"_Wake up, son."_

_Ben buried his face in his pillow. "Let me sleep, Dad." He tried to get back to the warm, fuzzy, uncomplicated place he had been. He tuned out his father's voice and drifted away. Gradually, he floated back. A one-sided argument was taking place directly over his head. _

"_No, I won't poke him with a stick, Mother. He's a man, not a furry nightcrawler." _

_At that, Ben turned over, reluctantly. His father was peering worriedly down at him. When he saw Ben's eyes were open, he hastily shoved the stick in his hand behind his back. With a sigh, Ben sat up on the bed. He looked around the one room cabin. A fire burned in the hearth, but it barely took the chill off the room. He shivered and pulled the blanket closer around him. _

"_I thought your cabin burned down?" _

"_It did," Bob said. _

_Ben looked down at himself. He was clad in his favorite red longjohns. That was curious. Hadn't he torn the sleeves into strips to bind the men on the barge? He fingered the material, then pushed up the right sleeve. Ray's stitches were gone. In fact, that arm was not paining him at all. Curiouser. _

"_You'd better get back, son." _

_Ben frowned. "Back? Back where?"_

"_Out there" He pointed at the door. For the first time, Ben became aware of the blizzard. The wind shrieked and tore at the cabin, rattling the windows and shaking the timbers. _

_He gaped at his father. "Out there? You want me to go out in that?!"_

_Bob nodded, grimly. "Better hurry. I think they might kill each other!"_

"Did you hear that?" Ray said. "Benny! Come on, Benny, wake up!" He patted his cheek, repeatedly. Thatcher, kneeling on his other side, rubbed Fraser's hand briskly. But, he didn't open his eyes. Still, his incoherent mumbling had broken the cycle of escalating hostility between them.

Ray took a deep breath and forced himself to speak calmly. "We have to move. It's just a matter of time before they break through up there. We'll be sitting ducks."

She looked at him, then down at Fraser, for a long moment. Much as she hated to admit it, Vecchio was right about the tactical situation. And, if this was the end, which seemed increasingly likely, she preferred to meet Death on her feet, rather than wait passively behind a stack of boxes for it to find her.

"Alright, Detective," she said, at last, "we'll go. But, you don't have to carry him."

He snorted. "You're gonna do it? He's heavier than he looks. Trust me. I carried him over a mountain once."

"I meant, _no one _has to carry him." She pointed to a handcart in the corner under the stairs. "We can use that."

"Oh."

Loading a limp, six foot Mountie on to a handcart was easier said than done. In the end, they put a box on the dolly to serve as a seat, plopped Fraser on top, bent his knees, and tightened the cart's strap around his chest. Ray checked to make sure it didn't restrict his breathing, than grasped the handles of the cart firmly.

"Ready?"

"Ready," Meg said, tightening her grip on Henri's gun and the flashlight. They each had an automatic weapon, an AK-47, slung over their shoulders. There was no ammunition, but it might be useful as a club.

It was slow going with the cart. As Ray had reported, the string of lightbulbs ended abruptly about a hundred feet down the corridor. They walked in silence, the flashlight providing illumination, for another few minutes. Well, silent except for the squeaking of the wheels.

Finally, Ray cleared his throat. "Uh ... my mother? Do you know – ?"

"She's home." She quickly reassured him. "She never knew you were missing."

"Great." He smiled in the gloom. "How bout my car?"

"Parked in your driveway."

Another long pause. Then, they both spoke at the same time:

"What are you doing here?" - "How on earth did you two get here?"

"You first," Meg said, quickly.

Ray snorted. "That's a long story."

"The gist, then."

So, Ray told her about the the stakeout at Brannigan's wharf, the barge, the tradeoff in the middle of Lake Huron, the cove, the snowmobiles. "We made it to a truck stop in the middle of nowhere– "

"Jake's Café off Highway 63. " She thought a moment. "Why didn't –?"

"Shine the light behind us." She quickly complied. "Merde!" Ray said. He was looking back the way they had come. She followed his gaze. Two parallel lines were etched in the dirt on the floor. The tracks of the wheels of the handcart.

"Does it matter?" she said. "Surely, they're going to know which way we went."

Ray furrowed his brow. "I don't know. I just don't like leaving something so obvious that says 'we went thataway'." He scratched his head. "I've been hanging around the Great White Hunter for too long." With a grunt, he tilted Fraser back and pushed on.

After a moment, Meg said, "Who were the men killed at Brannigan's Wharf?"

"Oh, right, I forgot that part. Couple of Nardo's guys. They dumped em in the Lake."

"We thought ..." she stopped. "Go on."

"So, at the truck stop, we're talking to Frannie on the phone, when I saw one of the guys from the cove in the cab of a truck that was fueling up ..." As he finished his story, he scratched his beard. "That's it." He paused. "What day is it?"

"It's Tuesday." She glanced at her watch. "Well, Wednesday morning, actually."

He nodded, scratching at the beard some more. "I haven't bathed in like five days."

"Really?" she said, drily. "I couldn't tell."

Ray slowed the cart to a gentle stop. They were at a crossroads. The corridor they were in continued straight. Another corridor opened to the left; an opposite, to the right. Meg shone the flashlight into each one looking for any sign that would indicate which way they should take. They looked identical. She looked at the floor in each branch. There was the ubiquitous layer of dirt, but no footprints or tracks, no marks of any kind. She wished in vain that she had brought the wolf.

She shared her thoughts with Ray, pointing out the evidence of disuse. "I don't think anybody has used these tunnels in a very long time."

Ray nodded, thinking out loud. "Yeah, it looks like the gang sticks close to that room with the goodies. Fraser called it a 'smuggler's cache.'" A thought occurred. "They were working really hard to break in at the stairs. Maybe," he said, with mounting hope, "they can't get in from another end."

"Which means maybe we can't get out." She continued to shine the flashlight down each corridor, uncertain of what to do next.

"Wanna flip a coin?" Ray offered.

"That's not very helpful, Detective," she snapped.

Ray, who had actually been trying to help, was stung. "You know, you're a real ray of sunshine, lady."

"Stop calling me that! I know what you really mean."

"What?" he said, with a wide-eyed innocent look. Too innocent.

"_Dragon_ Lady," she retorted.

"I ... uh ...um ... " Ray was at a loss. How had she found out about that? Flustered, he bent over Fraser and fiddled unnecessarily with the strap around his chest.

She looked uncertainly at the tunnels, then squared her shoulders. The first rule of command was to lead. "Stay here and stay alert. I'm going to explore ahead."

Ray started to protest, but she was already marching ahead, her head high. He saw the beam of the flashlight bounce off the walls and ceiling as she proceeded. It left him in the dark. He knelt down and tried to rouse Fraser again.

Keeping one ear cocked for any sound from any direction, he said, in a low voice, "C'mon, Benny, wake up. You can't leave me alone in here with her. We'll kill each other. Besides, you're the one who always knows which way to go." He stopped his ministrations, suddenly ashamed of himself. Fraser was hurt, perhaps badly. It was up to Ray to get them out of this, not the other way around.

He spotted the light as Thatcher made her way back and stood up. He patted his friend on his shoulder, and whispered into his ear. "Never mind, buddy. Don't you worry."

Thatcher saw him bent over Fraser, and hurried over. "Is he –?"

"He's OK," Ray reassured her. "Did you find anything?"

She scowled. "It keeps going straight. No end in sight." She added, "We should get moving." She took a step forward.

"Wait!" Ray's brow was furrowed in thought. "Wait a minute."

She looked at him, expectantly.

"Why that way?"

"You got a better idea, Detective?"

He didn't. But they were just flailing around here; they might as well flip a coin. She was tapping her foot, waiting for his answer. His instincts were telling him not to go off blindly. They might have only one chance to choose the right path. There had to be some way to make a decision. Some clue. Like moss growing on the north side of a tree. He frowned. Except, there were no trees, no moss, and no reason to go north even if he knew which way that was. OK, bad analogy.

"Tell me how you got here," he blurted, trying to buy some time to think.

"I just followed the tunnel back. It's a straight line."

"No, I mean, here, to Canada."

"By private pla-"

"What I mean," he said, irritably, "is _why_ are you _here_." She looked at him impatiently. "Fraser couldn't tell Frannie where we were going. He and I didn't know where we would end up when we jumped into the truck. So, how did you find us? Did you trace the plate here?"

"No, the plate was stolen."

"Then how?"

She looked anxiously behind them. "I'll tell you on the way."

"No, tell me now."

"We don't have time right now."

"I think we'd better make time."

"I disagree," she said, firmly. "And I'm in command. So," she pointed at the tunnel straight ahead. "We keep going that way."

Ray crossed his arms over his chest. "Why that way and not one of the other two perfectly good tunnels? Give me a reason and I'll do it."

"Because ... because ...," she spluttered, "Because, I said so!" She frowned at the childishness of that statement, but refused to take it back.

Ray had had it. He was in the dark, literally and figuratively, and he hated it. Five days ago, he had been sitting in his beloved Riviera staking out bad guys on his home turf. Brannigan's Wharf was a rough place, but one he knew how to handle. Since coming to on the barge in Lake Michigan, he had felt like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. He and Fraser had careened from crisis to crisis, jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire and back again. He had lost all his bearings, with no way to re-orient himself. The phone call to Frannie had been the first step to doing so, and that had been snatched away. Thatcher was his last chance.

He sat down in front of the cart. "I'm not going anywhere until I know where the hell I am and how the hell you got here."

She grabbed the handles of the cart and pushed. Fraser's knees jabbed Ray's shoulder. Ray didn't move. She rammed into him a couple of more times.

"You're behaving like a child!"

He snorted, "And you're not?"

As she glared down at him, he said, "This is important to me, Inspector. I need to know." He grabbed Fraser's wrist, revealing the luminous dial on his watch. "Five minutes. That's all I ask."

She hesitated, then said, stiffly, "Diefenbaker delivered the note to me. From that, we traced you to Brannigan's Wharf and Frank Nardo. But, you had disappeared. We were at a loss. Until the phone call to Frannie, we thought you were dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes, the two bodies that were dumped in the Lake?" At his nod, she said, "We thought that was you and Fraser."

"Why? No, never mind," Ray's mind reeled at the implications, but they needed to stay focused. "Go on."

"Once we pinned down the location of your call this morning, I decided to fly in to North Bay - that's the closest airport to the truck stop. It's in Ontario." Ray nodded. He knew that much. "The truck stop was close to the provincial border, though, and that, combined with the Quebec license plate ... I contacted the local authorities for both Ontario and Quebec." She took a breath. "Let me back up a bit. Before I left Chicago, Elaine had made the connection between Frank Nardo and Antoine Depardieu."

Ray looked at her, puzzled. "Who's Antoine Depardieu?"

Surprised at his ignorance, Thatcher said, "Frank Nardo's French Canadian brother-in-law."

Ray hooted and clapped a hand on Fraser's knee. "We were both right, Benny!" He turned back to Thatcher. "What's his story?"

She continued, "He's a respectable business man with numerous corporations and multiple holdings all over the Maritimes, Ontario, Quebec." She paused. "I asked the local Surete officer to narrow it down. He gave me a list of Depardieu's enterprises in Ontario and Quebec, using the truck stop as the epicenter. It contained over a dozen facilities within a three hundred mile radius." She paused. "At that point, I was on my own."

"The locals wouldn't help?

Thatcher was quick to come to their defense. "They gave me what help they could. You have to understand. The Surete out here consists of nine officers covering a thousand square miles of territory, working three shifts, seven days a week. I had no evidence of any wrongdoing on the part of Depardieu. The connection to Chicago was tenuous at best. And, it's not a crime to be the brother-in-law of an American mobster. You and Fraser were considered missing persons, not victims of foul play. Other police matters had to take precedence. When I left the Surete station this evening, all the duty officers were responding to a fatal multi-vehicle pileup on Route 101."

"So, you investigated on your own."

"Yes."

Ray thought that was pretty ballsy, but wasn't about to say so. "But if you just started today, this afternoon, how did you get on to this place so fast? Luck?"

She looked uncomfortable. "I can't say."

"Why not?"

She looked at Fraser's watch. "Time's up."

Ray grabbed her wrist. "Tell me."

She yanked her arm away. "It's a matter of Canadian national security. You don't have the clearance." Neither do I, she thought, but kept that to herself.

Ray gritted his teeth. "I have a right to know. I think I've earned it."

In all fairness, Thatcher really couldn't dispute that. She took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. "Do you swear on your word of honor that you will keep this confidential? I mean, you can't tell anyone. Ever!"

Ray put a hand over his heart, and tried his best to look honorable, despite his greasy coveralls, dirty face and shaggy beard. "I swear."

She hesitated, then lowered her voice. "Have you ever heard of the Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes." When she still didn't speak, he said, "It's a cartel established by law to control the price and supply of maple syrup in Canada by mandating maple syrup producers sell exclusively through the cartel." At her look of surprise, he said, irritably, "I've been working on this case with Fraser for weeks now. He said the location of the syrup is top secret." Comprehension dawned on his features.

She nodded. "A friend in Ottawa gave me the location of the Reserve's facilities. Strictly on the Q.T., you understand. One of them, holding a third of the national maple syrup supply, is located a few miles east of the Depardieu Company's Northwest Food Distribution Center." She added, helpfully. "That Distribution Center is what's over our heads."

Ray gaped at her.

She crossed her arms over her chest, and confided, "I took a leap of faith."

_Ben leapt over the crevasse, and teetered on the edge for a heart-stopping moment, as he heard the sound of ice cracking under his feet. He lurched forward and fell to the other side, just as the edge broke off and dropped into the abyss. He scrambled away on hands and knees from the lethal opening in the ice until he judged the distance safe enough and lay there, catching his breath._

_He didn't remember getting dressed or leaving the cabin. He had just found himself on the glacier heading toward the mountains. His instincts were warring. On one hand, he knew it was crazy to be out in a storm like this, much less crossing a glacier in it. It was near whiteout conditions, and the wind chill was fierce, cutting through his furs like a hot knife through butter. On the other hand, a growing sense of urgency pressed down upon him, outweighing all other considerations. He knew with utter certainty that he had to find his way back or ... or what? Unfortunately, he didn't know where he was trying to find his way back to, or what awful thing would happen if he didn't. He rolled on to his back and stared up at the white sky. It was obvious that he was dreaming. Why not just let go and drift away? What was the harm? He closed his eyes, feeling the snow falling on his lids. His breathing grew soft and slow, as he let go._

Ray leapt to his feet, then searched the pockets of Fraser's coveralls.

"What are you doing?" Thatcher demanded. "It's time to go."

"Eureka!" Ray showed her the compass he held in his hands. He held it under the beam of the flashlight. It took him a moment to remember how to use it. There! North was directly ahead. So, to the right would be ...

She was staring at him. "East," she said, tentatively, then more firmly, "We should head east. Toward the Reserve."

Ray pointed to the corridor to the right. "East," he declared. He handed the flashlight back to her, then tucked the compass into his pocket. He gripped Fraser's left shoulder tightly for a moment, and said, "Hang in there, Benny." He tilted the cart back carefully and followed Thatcher into the tunnel.

_Fraser felt a hand grip his shoulder tightly, rousing him from his stupor. "Dad?" he called, but no one answered. He lurched to his knees, then to his feet. His heart thudded in his chest at the close call. He had nearly fallen asleep on a glacier in a blizzard! He looked around. He couldn't see the mountain any more. Everything was white. He brought the compass up close to his face. East. The Pass was due east. He tucked his head down against the wind, and doggedly put one foot in front of the other. _


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

"... so I parked my rental car in a copse of trees off the private road, and set out on foot. I don't know what I hoped to find. Perhaps the truck Fraser had described to your sister. Something. Anything that would give the Surete the justification for an inquiry, if not a search warrant." Meg grimaced. "I had been walking along the fence line for an hour or so, when I got caught." As she spoke, she shone the flashlight on the floor in front of them.

Keeping pace beside her, Ray asked, "What happened?" The cart with its limp passenger provided a squeaky counterpoint to her narrative.

She scowled, "Henri and Caesare happened."

"Huh?"

"A guard and his German shepherd patrolling the perimeter. The dog tipped him off."

"Bad luck," Ray said, sympathetically.

She made a noise in the affirmative. She kept to herself the embarrassing fact that she had been in the bushes relieving herself at the time. A few seconds sooner, and she would have been caught, quite literally, with her pants down. Perhaps someday, she'd be able to laugh about that.

"Did you identify yourself as a cop?"

"No! I have no jurisdiction in this province." She gave him a sidewise glance. "I know you're unfamiliar with our law enforcement systems, Detective. It would be ... um ..." she struggled to find the right word.

"Politically incorrect?"

She nodded. "It would be _extremely_ politically incorrect for an RCMP officer to intrude in a provincial police matter." She added, "It's one thing to request assistance on an ongoing investigation with intra-provincial ties, but ... " She trailed off.

Ray finished her sentence. "Getting caught surveilling a respectable Quebecois businessman from the bushes would be another thing entirely."

"Y-yes."

"But, you did it anyway."

She didn't answer.

"Good for you."

She glanced at him. He seemed as surprised as she was by the compliment. She cleared her throat and continued. "I had left my ID in the car, which I had parked in the brush, some distance from where they found me. I only had my binoculars and cell phone with me. I told the guard that I was lost and asked for directions. The big gorilla marched me off at gunpoint with that damn Caesare nipping at my heels. Nasty cur."

"We saw that part from the warehouse rafters," Ray said. "Fraser nearly –" He stopped abruptly.

"Fraser nearly what?"

"He nearly fell off in surprise," he said, hastily. "We both did." He couldn't tell her about that look on Fraser's face as he had watched her being pushed and shoved into the office at gunpoint. Or how he would have stormed the battlements, single-handedly, if Ray hadn't stopped him. "What happened, then?"

She described Depardieu, the cat and mouse quality to their conversation, his courtly manners underscored with real menace. She wasn't sure if she was doing the scene justice. Still, Vecchio was rapt.

"I tried to bluff my way out. I told him I was lost." She didn't volunteer that that was the literal truth. She _had_ lost her bearings and had been looking for the car, unsuccessfully, when the call of nature intervened. "I even tried to flirt with him," she admitted.

"You do what you have to do," Ray said, admiringly. "Gutsy."

"Thank you, Detective," she said, primly. Inside, she beamed. "But, he didn't buy it." She paused, thinking. "They may have found the car since then."

Ray shook his head. "Maybe. But, they've been pretty busy _inside_ the perimeter since they nabbed you."

She looked up at him, hoping he was right. "Fraser said you created a diversion. What did you do?"

He grinned. "I rigged the gas tank of a forklift to blow inside a storage shed. I piled a bunch of metal barrels, some full, some empty, around it, stuffed a piece of Fraser's longjohns in the tank as a fuse, lit it, and ran like hell." He laughed, softly. "Those metal cans clattering down all over the place made a great sound effect." He added, "It set the shed on fire, too. It was spreading to a garage, last I saw."

It was her turn to look admiring. "We heard the boom all the way in Depardieu's office. It rattled the windows. After he rushed out to see what had happened, Fraser arrived."

"Well, that was the plan, see," Ray said, eagerly. "I set off the explosion on the opposite side of the grounds, then doubled back for the rendezvous." He frowned. "But, you know what they say about best laid plans. Some foreman-type grabbed me to go help him put out the fire. I had to knock him out to get away from him. Somebody saw me and started shooting." He shrugged. "The rest I think you know."

"Yes." She shone the light on her watch. "Speaking of best laid plans, that's thirty minutes." Ray parked Fraser against the wall. Thatcher unzipped her parka and shrugged out of it. She removed the gun from the pocket.

She handed the parka to Ray, who folded it over one arm. Then, she gave him the flashlight. She tried to give him the gun, but he refused to take it.

"You keep it," he said, glancing at Fraser. "My hands are full."

She started to protest, then gave it up when she saw it was pointless.

"OK," he said, "Back in a jif."

"Be careful," she said.

"I always am." He nodded his head at Fraser. "He's the one who dives in where angels fear to tread." He didn't tell her that it was his own leap of faith into the back of the truck that had brought them here.

"I'll take care of him," she said, softly.

He nodded and was gone. He trotted back down the corridor, the light shining ahead of him. She listened to his footfalls until they faded away. The darkness was now absolute. It pressed in upon her like a living thing. She felt her way to the wall, then slid down it until she was sitting on the floor. She huddled against Fraser's legs. She reached up and grabbed his wrist, reassured to feel the steady bump-bump of his pulse. Telling herself it was for purely professional reasons, she slipped a hand inside his. Her other hand gripped the gun, while she waited for Vecchio to return.

_Ben stood at the foot of Fortitude Pass and stared in disbelief. It couldn't be. But, there it was. He slowly approached the lean-to, constructed from a coat and a rifle, staked at a crag in the lee of the mountain. He dropped to his knees and crawled inside. Victoria huddled in her parka. Her long black hair, tucked inside the hood, framed her white face. She looked nearly frozen, but when she saw him, she smiled and opened her arms. He went to her instantly, enfolding her, wrapping his larger body around hers, sharing his warmth. _

"_You came back," she whispered. "You came back to me."_

"_Wh-what are you doing here, Victoria?"_

"_Waiting for you." She pulled him closer. "I've been waiting so long, Ben." _

"_But, you left. On the train ..." he stopped talking, distracted by the feel of her, the way her body molded to him, the clasp of her small hand in his. He bowed his head over hers, utterly lost in the sensation. He thought he would never know this again. This ... this completeness. He closed his eyes and surrendered himself to it. "Victoria," he whispered, as the storm closed in around them._

"Fraser?" Meg said, tentatively. "Did you say something?" His hand tightened in hers. She set down the gun, rose to her knees, and put her free hand to his cheek. She felt the growth of beard there, the stubble at the stage where it was turning soft and silky. It was like petting a cat. "Fraser?" she repeated. Then, softening her tone, she whispered into his ear, "Ben? Can you hear me? I'm here. It's me, Inspect–" She paused. "It's me, Meg."

_Ben's eyes snapped open. Victoria stirred in his arms. "Go back to sleep, Ben," she murmured. He looked down at her. Frost rimed her brows and eyelashes and dusted her dark hair. It suited her pristine features, giving her the icy beauty of the winter queen from a favorite childhood story. Still, he shook her. "Wake up, Victoria! We have to stay awake!"_

"_I don't want to," she complained, sleepily. "I want to stay here with you, forever and ever." She pulled him close. "We can, you know. Stay here. Forever." She whispered, "All you have to do is close your eyes."_

_Oh, he wanted to. He ached to hold her like this. Forever and ever. But, again, that sense of urgency clawed at him. He looked at her lovely face and knew that to stay was to die. And he didn't want to die. Not anymore. "I have to go," he said, his voice breaking._

"_Stay," she pleaded._

"_Come with me."_

"_I can't." She gripped his arms. "I must stay here. I can only _be_ here." And he heard the truth of it in her voice._

"_And I must go. Now," he said, and pulled away from her embrace. She opened her eyes then, looking at him with such sadness, that he nearly gathered her to him again. But, instead, he said, "Forgive me. Forgive me, Victoria."_

"_I can't forgive you, Ben," she said, and her smiling lips had a self-mocking tilt now. "It's not in my nature." She peered into his eyes, deep down, down into his heart. "The real question is whether you can forgive yourself." _

_He felt the familiar hollowness inside as she put into words the question he had asked himself so many times. He had no answer. With one last look, he backed out of the lean-to and stood up. He stood there for a long moment. Then, he set his course, and pushed on into the storm._

Meg let go of Fraser's hand. She had made out one word of his incoherent murmuring. Only one word, but it was uttered with such longing, and to such devastating effect. She shivered, pulling her sweater tightly around her.


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

Ray made it to the crossroads in record time. He listened at each branch, but couldn't hear anything coming. He dashed across to the corridor opposite. The western corridor. He hurried down that way, dragging the barrels of both AKs in the dirt to simulate the cart tracks extending from the main tunnel. He went a good distance, then doubled back, keeping close to the wall, scuffing his feet to obscure his footprints. When he got back to the crossroads, he took the northern tunnel, and did his best to obliterate any signs that Thatcher had reconnoitered that way by dragging her parka across her path. When he doubled back, he again kept to the wall. He hoped the false trail would fool pursuers enough to give them time to get out through the eastern tunnel. He knew something like this would never fool Fraser. Benny could track a snowflake through a blizzard. But, it was the best Ray could do under the circumstances.

He walked backwards into the eastern tunnel, using the parka on the end of the rifles to smooth out the wheel marks and his footprints. By the time he made it back to Thatcher and Fraser, he was breathless and his back ached from stooping. Still, in the gloom, it was a credible ruse.

He shone the light ahead of him, catching Thatcher in the face. She threw an arm up to shield her eyes.

"Get that out of my eyes," she said, sharply. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision.

"Sorry," he said, contritely. He shook out her parka. She sneezed as a cloud of dust billowed around her head.

"Gezundheit," he said, automatically.

She threw him an irritated glance as she rubbed her eyes and wiped her nose. She got to her feet and he handed her the parka. She shrugged into it, glad for its warmth.

Ray knelt by the cart and checked the strap. "How you doing, Benny?"

"He was mumbling something while you were gone. A name." She looked at him, appraisingly. "Victoria?"

Ray stared at her, then shifted his eyes away. "Nobody important," he said, his tone casual. He stood up and dusted off his knees. His hand gripped Fraser's shoulder tightly as he spoke. Protectively, it seemed to Meg. "He's out of his head. Forget about it."

She zipped up the parka. She averted her face so he didn't see her disappointment. "Let's go."

Ray took the handles of the cart and tilted it up. They set off into the gloom. Thatcher held the flashlight ahead of them. The beam was dimming. She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she thought of being trapped down here in the dark. The mention of Victoria's name seemed to have cast a pall over Vecchio. He was silent as he trudged beside her. The squeak of the wheels was the only sound. Finally, she couldn't stand it anymore.

"I know about Victoria Metcalf," she blurted.

"Yeah," he said, coldly. "What do you know?"

"That she wasn't 'nobody important.' I've read the files," she snapped.

"Well, you can't believe everything you read," he said, sourly. He increased his pace, and she had to step lively to shine the light ahead of the cart.

Whatever fragile rapport she and Vecchio had been developing was dissipating in front of Meg's eyes. She knew that she should leave it alone. He was Fraser's friend. And, it was definitely the wrong place and the wrong time. But, she couldn't let it go. When she heard Fraser calling the name of that woman, with such longing ... a woman who was a murderer and a fugitive ... it had dredged up all her doubts about him. A little voice inside her said it was unfair to judge him under these circumstances. But, she couldn't seem to help herself.

She looked at the grim, silent man walking beside her. This may be her only chance to learn the truth.

"Victoria Metcalf and Fraser were ... close," she probed.

Ray didn't say anything.

"They were lovers, weren't they?"

He practically snarled at her. "Look, lady. What do you want me to say? She was bad news. She's gone. End of story."

"But –"

"But what? You want some dirt on him, huh? So, you and the muckety-mucks can run him out of the Mounties once and for all? Chicago isn't far enough away for you guys?" He sneered at her. "That was a pretty sleazy trick you pulled with the firearms cert last month. Sorry if I messed up your plans!"

Stung, she said, "I had nothing to do with that. I tried to help –"

"Yeah, big deal. You faxed a form!"

She tried to tamp her aggression down. Vecchio had a unique way of getting under her skin, and she wanted answers, not an argument. "Detective, I'm just trying to understand him -"

"Well, I can't help you there." Ray laughed, bitterly. "I don't understand him, either! You belittle him, fire him, sabotage him, stick him out on the sidewalk like a statue, and he still thinks the sun shines out of your ass!" He swore, walking faster. "I thought maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see him for who he really is –"

"I'm trying to!" She grabbed his arm and forced him to stop. She got up on tiptoe and in his face. "Get off your high horse and listen to me, Vecchio. I'm trying to get beyond what I've read and what I've been told. It doesn't add up. Not with what I've seen." She took a deep breath. "I don't want dirt on him. I just want to know the truth."

Ray looked searchingly into her face. "Do you really mean that?"

"Yes."

He kept his gaze locked with hers. "He's the most irritating person in the world," he said. "But, he's for real. Trust your instincts, Inspector."

She swallowed. "I'm trying, but it's difficult when I don't know the truth."

Ray nodded. "Victoria Metcalf is the only woman he ever loved, and she ripped his guts out and stomped on them." He gestured toward Fraser. "When he wakes up, you ask him the rest of your questions. You'll be satisfied with the answers."

She nodded, slowly. "Fair enough."

He hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "Look, I know we don't like each other. But, considering our circumstances ..." He thrust out a hand. "Truce, Inspector?"

She hesitated only a moment, then took it. "Truce, Detective."

_Grasping the handle of the ice axe in one hand, and a knob of rock in the other, Ben climbed the edge of the cliff face. At last, the top was in reach. With a grunt, he heaved himself over the edge, and slid down the other side. He had reached Fortitude Pass at last. An apt name, he thought as he rested trembling muscles. He was sheltered from the omnipresent wind here. A good thing as he was sweating profusely from the exertion. He took a deep breath and looked around him. It was much as he remembered it, though it had been years now since he had been here. Though, that looked like a new rock fall over to his left. He squinted at it, then lurched to his feet. _

_There! Behind the jumble of boulders and smaller rocks was a fissure in the stone big enough for a man to squeeze through. He bent, peering into it. Then, cupping a hand to his mouth, he called a low "helloooo". From the quality of the sound, he surmised that the fissure opened into a greater space. He removed the crank lantern from his pack, turned the handle several times, then thrust the light inside. The fissure extended about five yards before twisting away. He cocked his head and listened. Faint, very faint voices. Indistinct. Vague. It might have been his imagination. But, it made up his mind for him. He wriggled into the fissure, holding the lantern before him. _

_After that first turning, it did open up into a cave. Long, narrow, tunnel-like. He checked his compass. Easterly heading, and going down. Just enough headroom that he could stand without ducking. He hesitated only a moment, then moved forward. _

_He had to stop every ten minutes or so to crank the lantern. While the tunnel twisted and turned from time to time, it followed the easterly course. Occasionally, he heard the voices, but at the outer range of his hearing. He didn't seem to be getting any closer, or they were moving away. There must be bats in here with him, though. He could hear them squeaking, tucked away in high, tiny spaces. It was good to be out of the wind and the snow, but he was very tired. Still there was no question of stopping to rest. The sense of urgency was nearly overwhelming now. _

_At one point, the cavern widened and branched off into two bigger, wider tunnels. He resisted the temptation to try his luck with one of them, and kept to the easterly course. If it dead ended on him, he could always double back. He trudged along, with only the squeaking of the bats for company. _


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

Ray glanced at his watch. Five minutes had passed since the last time he had checked it, and the time before that, and the time before that, going back _ad nauseum_. He was becoming obsessive about it, though he tried not to peek. Or maybe, he was being compulsive? Or, Ray thought, he was acting obsessively compulsive. Yeah, that's the ticket, he thought, in triumph. No, wait, maybe he was being compulsively obsessive?

He was about to ask Thatcher what she thought was the appropriate phrase, then abruptly shut down that impulse. She'd just give him one of her looks. She had a thousand of them. They ran the gamut from cool reserve to fire-breathing Dragon Lady, and every variation in between. She ought to patent them. With only the tiniest change in expression, she could make Ray feel bumbling, oafish, clumsy, inarticulate, ineffective, inane or immature. Or, all of the above, all at once. He was starting to number them. He supposed that was obsessive. Or compulsive. Or compulsively obsess– he stopped that line of thought with difficulty and tried not to look at his watch again. Tried mightily. He failed. Three minutes.

In Ray's defense, time didn't exactly fly while you were pushing an unconscious Mountie on a squeaking handcart down a dimly lit tunnel. Thatcher had offered to spell him, but Fraser weighed one-eighty with his boots on. Add to that the weight of the cart and the box he sat on, it was closer to two hundred pounds. It wasn't chivalry - they needed to keep up the pace. She walked slightly ahead, keeper of the flame. The flame that was dimming as the batteries inevitably wore down.

"Uh, Detective?"

He sighed. "Inspector, under the circumstances, do you think you might find it within yourself to call me 'Ray'?"

She hesitated, then said, "I suppose." She added, after a beat. "Ray."

"See, that wasn't so hard."

She hesitated, then said, stiffly, "You can call me 'Meg.'"

"OK," he said, heartily. "Meg."

"But," she said, quickly, "and don't take this the wrong way, just for the duration."

"The duration?"

"Yes," she said, firmly. "I think it's important to observe the proprieties. Informality in a working relationship undermines discipline and invites chaos."

"Well," he said, sourly, "we wouldn't want that now, would we?"

The cart squeaked for a few more minutes.

"Um, Ray?"

"Yes, Meg?"

"Why don't you keep on going for a bit without me? I'll catch up."

"Why? Did you hear something?" he said, looking over his shoulder in alarm. He stopped the cart, straining his ears.

"No."

He started pushing again. "I think we should stick together."

"I won't get lost. It's a straight line, for goodness sake!"

He shot her a look of concern. "Are you OK?"

"Yes," she said, tersely. "I just need a moment."

He slowed the cart to a stop. "Oh. Sure, I could use a break, too." He stretched his aching back muscles.

"Must you be so obtuse?" she snapped.

"Whoa! What did I do?" he said, defensively.

She took a breath. "Nothing. Sorry. Here, take the flashlight. I just need a little ... privacy."

"Privacy?" he said, befuddled. "What do you need privacy for?"

She shot him Dragon Lady Look #138. The Do I Really Have to Explain It To You, You Idiot look.

"Oh." He hastily handed her back the light. "Here, I don't need it. It's a straight line." He grabbed the handles of the cart. "Besides, my hands are full. You keep it in case you ... uh ... need ... it," He tried to stop babbling, and started pushing. "I'll ... uh ... just keep going ... Shout if you need help, uh, that is -" the wheels of the cart squeaked. "Take your time." The wheels squeaked louder as he quickened his pace.

Meg waited until he was out of sight. Honestly! Did she have to paint him a picture? She slipped out of the parka, then unzipped. As she squatted against a wall, her irritation with Vecchio grew to encompass his entire gender. Oh, they had it easy, all right. Panties, long underwear, trousers and boots wouldn't slow them down at all. No! Vive la difference, my ass!

In the dark, Ray kept his head down and motored, trying to put as much distance between himself and Thatcher as humanly possible. "Obtuse! I'm not the one who's obtuse, Benny," he muttered. "How the hell am I supposed to know what she's talking about? No wonder, you act like an idi –"

BAM!

Fraser and cart rammed into an obstruction and bounced back against him. Caught off-guard, Ray fell, landing hard on his ass. He got to his knees, feeling around in the dark. Fraser was half hanging off the cart, his box askew, the strap around his chest the only thing keeping him on. "Sorry, man," Ray said, as he righted him. He made sure he was breathing OK, pulse strong, as comfortable as possible. Then, he reached out his hands, looking for what they had rammed into with Fraser's knees.

A wall.

Ray's heart thudded in his chest. Using his hands, he "walked" himself up the wall till he was on his feet. Keeping one hand on the wall to guide himself, and using Fraser as a starting and ending point, he walked the perimeter of a square room. By the heel to toe method, he roughly measured it as thirty feet by thirty feet. A square room at the end of a corridor, with the same dimensions as the smuggler's cache. The terminus.

Where the hell was Thatcher? How long did it take for a woman to pee? He navigated by touch around the room and back to the corridor. He waited impatiently until he saw the flashlight beam, then strode out to meet her.

"What took you so long?" Before she could shoot him Dragon Lady #77, he said, quickly, "Never mind. I found it. The end."

"The end? Of the tunnel?"

"No, of the story," he said, sarcastically. "Of course, the end of the tunnel." He hurried her to the room. She shone the flashlight around the space. She immediately realized that the room was the same size and shape as the smuggler's cache at the Depardieu warehouse. Unlike that space, however, there were no stairs and no lights.

But, there was a door.

It was heavy-duty, industrial, a steel door, set flush into the wall. There was no knob, no lock. Ray tried pushing on it, to no avail. Whatever mechanism opened it, worked from the other side. He leaned his back against it, looking at Meg in silence. He knew somehow - instinct, hunch or, as Fraser would say, subliminal reasoning - that this door had not been opened in a long, long time.

In the dimming light, she looked at him, bleakly. "We can't open that."

"No. It's a security door. It's designed to keep people out." He grimaced. "Got any C-4 on you?"

"Sorry." Then, she pulled the gun out of her pocket. "I do have this. Do you think we can shoot our way through?"

Ray scratched his head. "It's not like TV. There's nothing to shoot at that'll make this thing open. And I'd be worried about ricochet with that steel." He sighed. "Somebody's got to open it from the other side."

"So, what do we do? Knock?"

"If we knock, it's possible that the bad guys will answer," he told her. "But, I don't think we have much choice."

She nodded. "We knock."

He grabbed the handles of the cart. "Let's get you out of the way, Benny." He rolled him to the far side of the room, and backed him into the corner, to the left of the open corridor. Back at the door, he slipped the empty AK-47 off his shoulder and examined it. The stock was metal, the butt end flat. He hoisted it in a two handed grip. "This is gonna make some noise."

"Right." She took up position just inside the room, peering out into the corridor, gun in hand. She had set the flashlight on the floor facing toward the steel door. It provided some illumination for Ray, and a little for the room. It didn't do much for the corridor.

Ray drove the stock of the rifle against the steel as hard as he could. Even though she had been expecting it, the loud CLANG still made Meg jump. Then, he did it again. And again. He kept it up until he was gasping. He stopped and leaned heavily against the door. He wiped his face, wrinkling his nose at the aroma that wafted from his sweat-soaked body. God, he needed a bath.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said. He pressed an ear to the cold steel. Nothing. He picked up the rifle to start again, then noticed the stock was smashed. He tossed it away and picked up the other one. "If at first you don't succeed ..." He banged repeatedly until the second rifle too fell apart. Ray collapsed back against the door and slid to the floor, exhausted. He listened again. Nothing. He looked up at Meg, without speaking.

"We can dismantle the cart to make another club," she said, helpfully. "I'll take a turn."

He nodded, still catching his breath. Then, he slowly pushed himself to his feet. As he took a step toward the cart, the flashlight winked out.

"Merde," he said, then moved to pick it up. Maybe, if he shook

it ... BANG! His head collided with Meg's hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"Oooff," she said, falling on her bum. She fumbled for the flashlight, found it, and shook it. The beam came on for an instant, illuminating Ray as he sat, rubbing his own forehead. Then, it fluttered off. And stayed off, no matter what she did with it.

"That's that, then," she said, stating the obvious.

"Fraser's got a couple of waterproof matches," Ray offered.

She snorted. "That would be great if we had the C-4."

"Yeah," Ray said, appreciating her attempt at humor. He got to his feet and reached down, fumbling for her hand. He hoisted her up.

"Thank you," she said. She put out her hand blindly, and encountered his chest. "Which way is the cart?"

Before he could answer, the room was engulfed in a blaze of light. To their dark-adapted eyes, it was beyond blinding. Ray felt like hot needles were jabbed through his eyeballs straight into his brain. He gasped, shielding his eyes, and stumbled back against the steel door, confused and disoriented. Meg reeled, and fell against him. Her eyes were on fire!

_The lantern had dimmed. As he was about to crank it, he noticed a dull red glow emanating ahead. A fire? He sniffed. No smoke. He cocked his head. The voices were louder, though he still couldn't make them out. He switched off the lantern and clipped it to his belt. The red light was enough to see by as he walked, though it flickered and danced, casting weird shadows on the walls and floor. He squeezed through a cleft in a rock, and stepped into a stony chamber the size of a large room. To his disappointment, it was a dead end. He would have turned around and started back, but for the odd wall that comprised the rear of the chamber. _

_His first thought was that it must be ice, perhaps a glacier abutted the cave. He touched the surface with a bare hand. It was cool, but not frigid. Not ice, then. Crystal. It was a solid wall of crystal. He had never seen the like. Was it some weird formation of stalactite and stalagmite that had met and fused together over a vast expanse of time? Translucent, rather than transparent, he could see through it, though not clearly. Shapes moved on the other side, as if through a glass, darkly. The source of the red light was over there as well. The glow on his side of the cave was the leakage through the crystal wall. _

_Ben pressed an ear against the wall, then reared back in surprise. He knew that some crystals had a harmonic quality. He had built a crystal radio with the Reverend when he was a child. But, how on earth? He pressed his ear to the wall again. Gregorian Chant. The _Kyrie_, if he wasn't mistaken. He couldn't explain this music, so he closed his eyes and enjoyed it, listening rapturously for a few minutes. He straightened with a jerk. He had nearly fallen asleep. He didn't remember sitting down, but he was, leaning against the wall, nodding off to the siren song of this cave. _

_The shapes on the other side of the wall seemed closer, the voices louder. In fact, there seemed to be new, bigger shapes. They made him uneasy. There was a menacing quality to the shapes and voices now. Ben knew that he had to get through this wall. Right now._

_He rummaged in his pack, extracting the axe he had used on the climb. He drew his arm back and sunk the pick end of the axe into the wall. Clunk. None of the shapes on the other side reacted to the sound. Feeling guilty for destroying something so beautiful, he hardened his heart, and struck another blow. And another. And another._

Meg pressed her palms against her eyes, trembling with shock.

"What's happening?" she cried, blindly reaching out. "Ray?"

He grabbed her hand, steadying her. "I don't know. My eyes!"

"Forgive me, Meg," said a smooth, baritone voice in French.

She froze. She felt Ray stiffen beside her. "Antoine?"

"At your service, mam'selle," he replied, still in the same language. "I apologize for the flare, cheri. But it was a little dark in there." He spoke French too rapidly for Meg to follow. Then, she felt someone grab her. Someone big. She struggled. Ray moved, blindly grappling with the big person. She heard his grunt of pain and felt him double over.

"Calm yourselves," Depardieu said, authoritatively. "Emile won't hurt you. Unless, you make him."

Meg restrained herself as Emile patted her down. He was professional, not lascivious. Still, in her vulnerable state, she felt violated. He removed the gun from the pocket of her parka and moved on to pat and frisk Ray. The pain in her streaming eyes was beginning to dissipate. She felt Emile move away from them.

"She had a gun; the man, this knife," he told Antoine. "And his wallet."

"Try the radio again."

She heard walkie-talkie sounds - the hiss of static, clicks, Emile calling names.

"Nothing, boss."

Ray squinted, his vision slowly starting to clear. He could make out two large blob shapes in front of him. A flare burned brightly on the floor, illuminating the entire room and its occupants in a sinister red glow. He looked at Thatcher. Her features were a blur, but he could make out her motion as she rubbed her eyes.

Ray faced the blobs, and assumed a belligerent stance, "What's going on here? Who the hell are you?"

"Antoine Depardieu, m'sieu, at your service," he said, switching to English, amused at the bravado of the squinting man, with tears running down his face. "And my associate, Emile ... " He turned, slightly, "I'm sorry, I don't recall the last name."

"DeBecque," Emile said, flatly.

"Really?" Depardieu said. Then, to Ray, "Meg and I are already acquainted, m'sieu. So ... who the hell are you?"

"Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago Police Department." What the hell, the guy already had his wallet and badge. Ray's vision was coming back. The tall, distinguished boss man, former owner of a classic 1959 Cadillac Seville, and a hulking blond man with a flattop stood between him and the corridor. He saw Emile flinch at his words. "That's right. I'm a cop."

"And you, Meg?" She almost laughed at his hurt tone. He might almost be saying _Et tu, Brute._

Thatcher's voice was glacial. "Inspector Margaret Thatcher, Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"An American policeman and an RCMP Inspector?" Depardieu said, in astonishment. "In Quebec? What are you doing here?"

"We," Thatcher said, imperiously, drawing herself up to her full height,"are the International Joint Task Force of the Chicago Police Department and the Canadian Consulate."

"Damn straight," said Ray, although he thought it was the International Joint Task Force of the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department. "You're in big trouble, now, buddy. You may as well surrender and get this over with."

Depardieu frowned at him, then burst into laughter. "You are a funny guy, M'sieu Detective."

"Where'd you come from? Through there?" Ray gestured behind him to the steel door, which looked untouched, still flush with the wall.

Depardieu snorted. "That door hasn't been opened in twenty years, I'll wager. Not since the government decommissioned this site."

"Decommissioned?" Meg asked.

Depardieu looked at her. "Didn't you know? This used to be part of the NORAD network before the government shut it down. The tunnel system was sealed off when the land was sold to private owners in the seventies."

"And you bought it?"

"Only a piece," he said, modestly. "But to answer your question, Detective, I came the same way you did." He dipped his head to them in a gesture of respect. "I must admit that your little ruse at the crossroads was clever. Most of my men are scampering down the western tunnel in hot pursuit, as we speak." He looked annoyed. "Sooner or later, they will figure out the deception." He shook his head, ruefully. "One had rather hoped it would be sooner. Emile and I had remained at the crossroads, when I heard the faintest of noises emanating from the eastern tunnel. And, voila, here we are."

He spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. Well, as magnanimous as one can while holding a gun. "Now, I have a question of my own. How did you learn of my partnership with Frank?" At Meg's blank stare, he prompted, "Frank Nardo, my brother-in-law?"

"Oh," she said, in disdain, "You mean, The Toothpick." She lifted her head and looked down her nose at him. Dragon Lady #57. Disapproval of One's Choice of Relations. "That's classified," she said, primly.

Ray glanced at her, admiring her spunk. "You wouldn't believe us anyway," he muttered, thinking longingly of a stack of Nick's blueberry pancakes. In a louder voice, he told Depardieu, "That's not important. What is important is that we did find out about it. And you're in a lot of trouble."

Depardieu shook his head. "I will grant you that you have been troublesome tonight. You are one of the mystery men that caused problems at my dock too, are you not?" he said to Ray, then paused. "But, wait, where is the other?"

"He's over here, boss," Emile said, from the corner of the room.

Depardieu looked quickly over his shoulder. Ray tensed, ready to lunge, but there was no opportunity. Both men were holding guns on them. They exchanged places, Depardieu toward Fraser, and Emile back to them. The big man was good. He never wavered in keeping them in his sights.

Depardieu stood over Fraser. "He is injured?"

"Concussion. When he fell through the trap door in the garage," Meg hurried to explain. "He's been unconscious ever since." She tensed. Antoine's proximity to her helpless junior officer was ratcheting up her adrenaline level even higher than she thought possible. Beside her, she heard Ray's breathing quicken, and knew that he felt the same.

Depardieu grabbed Fraser roughly by his hair and jerked his head up. He studied his slack face. "I don't know him. Not one of our fine local force." At Meg's look of surprise, he said, "Everybody knows everybody around here, Meg. It is a nice contrast to Montreal." He let Fraser's head drop. "Or Chicago. He is an American policeman, too?"

"He's a Mountie," she admitted, knowing that Fraser, like Ray, had his ID on him.

"Interesting, that not one of you is Surete." He rejoined Emile. "As I was saying, you may have caused me a spot of trouble. And my brother-in-law." He smiled. "But, I do not think that you are in position to cause me any more."

"Think again, Antoine," Ray said. "You're about to be busted wide open. Your best bet is to cooperate. It'll go easier for you."

"But, Detective, if I was about to be busted, where are your cohorts?"

"They're up there. Your place is surrounded," Ray said, with as much confidence as he could muster.

"I think not, Detective," he said, shaking his head. "No one has come to your aid in all this time, despite explosions, fire, gunshots. Nor, have I seen or heard from the local police. The - what is the word - the 'chatter' on the scanner is all about the accident on Route 101. Apparently, it was a bad one." He paused, thoughtfully. "Non, I think you are all alone. I do not understand how you infiltrated my operations. But, I think you and your friend," he gestured to Fraser, "have been undercover." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "In your case, deep undercover." He looked at Thatcher. "And you, Meg, were their liaison. But, we intercepted you before you could make contact with your inside men, did we not?"

Meg looked him in the eye. "You're wrong, Antoine. The Surete is involved with this operation. Officer Truffaut knows of the investigation, my whereabouts –"

Depardieu nodded, thoughtfully. "Perhaps. If that is so, Truffaut will be dealt with." His voice took on an ominous tone. "As you see, Meg, accidents can happen even on rural highways."

Meg stilled. If the three of them were going to die here and now, she didn't want to bring anyone else down with a lie that would accomplish nothing. She couldn't have that on her conscience, here at the end. She was scrambling for something to say, when Ray jumped back in. "You already know that there's more than just us. You know what's happening in Chicago."

"Ah, but Chicago is very far from here, Detective." He shrugged. "My brother-in-law is quite capable of managing his own affairs." He mused, thoughtfully. "No, he will deal with his own problems. And I will deal with mine." He looked at Meg with real regret. "A pity. We could have had a moment, cheri. It would have been lovely."

"What about your wife?" she said, sourly.

"What about her?" he said, genuinely surprised at the question. Then, he sighed, deeply. "Ah, but there is no point in wondering what might have been." He raised his gun. "Adieu, Meg."

_Ben stopped, leaning against the wall. His effort had left him gasping, sweating, and trembling. Yet, he hadn't even made a dent in the surface. Not a chip or crack. He turned the ice axe so that the hammer end faced the wall. All crystals had a shattering point. He just had to find it. With the last of his strength, he swung his arm as if he were about to ring a gong. The hammer struck the wall. The crystal rang a single, bell-like note before shattering into a thousand pieces. His momentum carried Ben through and he fell to the other side. _

"You'd shoot a woman and an unconscious man?" Ray said, scornfully, playing for time. He was sizing up the logistics. If he threw himself at both of them, he might be able to block the bullets and knock the guns from their hands before he went down. Maybe Meg could grab a gun –

"What do you mean by that?" she said, with asperity.

"By what?" he asked, mystified.

"What difference does it make if I'm a woman?" There was real anger in her tone.

"Really?" Ray asked, in disbelief. "You wanna go there at a time like this?"

"Why not?" she retorted. "It's not like there's going to be another time." She added, "Is there, Antoine?"

"I'm afraid not, cheri."

Ray gestured at Depardieu. "He called you 'cheri'!"

"He's holding a gun!"

They glared at each other.

"Fine," Ray said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Do whatever you're gonna do, Antoine. Don't listen to me."

"That's all you have to say?" she demanded.

"I was gonna say 'Ladies, first' but apparently that's a no-no."

Emile snickered, and said something in French to Depardieu, who laughed. Meg directed the diamond edged glare - Dragon Lady #6 - at them.

"What did you say?" Ray demanded of Emile.

Meg translated, angrily. "He said, 'Lovers' quarrel.'" Then, in a burst of inspiration, she added, "Darling." She reached out and took Ray's hand in hers.

Ray was so flabbergasted he didn't react at all. She clutched his hand tightly so he couldn't it pull it away.

"Antoine," she said, facing the French Canadian. "May we have a moment?" She lowered her eyelashes, demurely. "To say goodbye."

"But, of course, cheri," he said, "I am not a barbarian." He bowed in a very Gallic manner. "Take your time."

Meg pulled a shocked, unresisting Ray to her in a fierce embrace. "Put your arms around me, you idiot," she whispered in his ear, as she nuzzled his neck.

Ray's arms moved to embrace her of their own volition. He bent his head and buried his face in her hair. She smelled good. "What are you doing?"

"It's the only way to talk. Now, shut up and listen. We don't have much time." Ray pulled her closer as she continued. "I'll charge both of them just before they shoot, catching them by surprise. You should be able to get one of the guns away before they can react. If you're quick enough."

He nuzzled her left ear. "Now, wait a minute. That's what I was going to do," he whispered. "I'm bigger and stronger."

She bit his earlobe, none too gently. "Oooh, you're the big, strong man. And I'm just the woman, the damsel in distress –"

"That's not what I meant!" he hissed.

"Maybe," she whispered, "because I'm a woman, they won't be expecting me to be the aggressor, did you think of that?"

Ray hadn't, but he'd be damned if he'd ever admit it. He cupped the back of her head with his hand and whispered, "I'll do it and that's final." Ray knew he was going to die. All he had left was to do it on his terms. He wound his fingers into her soft, dark hair and pulled her head back. She opened her mouth to argue when he pressed his lips to hers.

Meg was so shocked that she froze in the embrace that she had initiated. At first, it was a tentative kiss, sweet really, but then he deepened it. She didn't resist, carrying on the ruse. But, then, she thought, if this _was_ it, if she was going to be shot dead in the next instant, why not show this arrogant, infuriating, chauvinistic American just what the Dragon Lady was capable of? That would teach him. Meg cradled Ray's head in her hands and fused her mouth and body to his.

Ray, who had intended merely to stop the argument, was dumbfounded by her response. Reason deserted him. In the vacuum it left, instinct rushed in. He kissed her with everything he had. He held nothing back. Why should he? He'd be dead in a minute.

Time stopped. Nothing existed for either Meg or Ray, except the touch of their lips, the feel of their arms around each other, the human need to comfort and be comforted in their moment of need ...

"Ahem."

Ray felt like he was waking from a dream.

"Ahem."

Meg felt like she was emerging from a pool of clear, warm water.

"AHEM!"

Ray opened his eyes to see Meg looking into his. He blinked and released her. She faltered and stepped back. Slowly, they turned to face Depardieu and his henchman.

"That was quite ... affecting," Depardieu said, no trace of mockery in his tone. He spoke to Emile in rapid French.

"What's he saying?" Ray muttered, out of the corner of his mouth.

"He is," she swallowed to clear the squeak. "He is ordering Emile to shoot you, on the count of three, when Antoine will shoot me. So, that we die simultaneously. It is his grand gesture to ... love." Her voice cracked on the last part. "Then, Emile is to shoot Fraser, strip our bodies and leave us here."

"On three?"

"Trois, actually."

Depardieu finished speaking. Emile nodded. They raised their guns.

"Un," Antoine said.

Ray tensed, rising on to the balls of his feet. Meg pressed her lips together tightly, and clenched her fists.

"Deux."

Suddenly, Depardieu's head jerked and his gun went off. Meg and Ray flinched. Emile collapsed. Antoine fell on to his prostrate henchman.

For an agonizing moment, Ray and Meg stood there, unable to comprehend what had happened. Then, they both bent and scooped a gun off the floor. Ray handed her Emile's as he knelt down. She kept both guns trained on the supine men.

Ray rolled Depardieu over. He was unconscious, but had a pulse and was breathing. He pushed him aside and examined Emile. There was a neat, nearly bloodless hole in the middle of his forehead. He was dead. Ray went back over Depardieu but there was no sign of a bullet wound, no blood, nothing. As he sank back on his haunches, puzzled, he spotted something on the ground, half-covered by Emile's body. He picked it up, bringing it close to his face.

It was a knife. A heavy-duty hunting knife, with a very dull edge. It smelled faintly of peaches.

Meg's shock had worn off enough that she could speak. "Is - isn't that Fraser's?"

Their eyes swivelled to the corner of the room. Fraser looked back at them from his perch on the box on the cart. For a long moment, the tableau was frozen in the red glow of the flare. Then, Ray looked at Meg.

She returned his look with Dragon Lady #1 - Nothing Happened And I Will Deny It With My Dying Breath If You Say Otherwise look.

That was absolutely, positively fine with Ray.

He pointed at the limp Depardieu, and said, shakily, "He's alive. Keep him covered." She nodded and pointed both guns at Antoine. Ray crossed to Fraser on rubbery legs and sank to his knees beside him.

Fraser looked bewildered. "Am I dreaming?"

"No." Ray didn't trust his voice so he didn't say anything more.

"Oh."

Ray fumbled with the buckle on the strap across Fraser's chest. His hands were shaking. Finally, he got it and the strap fell away.

Fraser watched as Meg slowly walked over to them. She knelt on his other side.

Ray said, sharply, "I told you to watch –"

"I tied him up with his and Emile's belts. He's not going anywhere," she said, brusquely. "Here." She handed him back the gun. She held Fraser's knife in her hand.

Fraser stared at it, then back at her. She had never seen an expression like this on his face. It was beyond unguarded. It could best be described as ... childlike.

"Fraser," she started. That seemed wrong, too harsh. "Ben," she said, gently. "Did you just throw this knife at that man over there?"

He looked at a spot over their shoulders. His father was standing there, a concerned expression on his rugged features.

Fraser frowned, and said slowly, "You mean Dad?"

Meg and Ray exchanged worried glances. "No, Fra – Ben," she said, "I meant the man on the ground."

Fraser's brow furrowed in thought. "I think so," he said, uncertainly. Looking anxiously at them and his father, he added, "I'm sorry."

Ray patted his shoulder. "Don't be, Benny. I don't know what happened, but I think you just saved our lives."

"Oh." He looked around at his surroundings, then down at himself, then back at their faces. His confusion was evident.

"How do you feel, Ben?" Meg asked.

"And don't say 'fine,'" Ray warned, as he saw his lips forming the word.

Fraser took a moment to assess. It was obvious to Ray that he wasn't operating on all cylinders. Then, haltingly, he said, "My head hurts." He moved his right arm, slightly. "My arm hurts." Then, looking further down, "My knees hurt." He looked back up. "And, I'm very tired."

Ray, feeling guilty about the knees, patted his shoulder again. He grabbed hold of the side of the cart and hoisted himself to his feet. Meg did, too. Fraser watched as they moved slightly away and bent their heads together.

His father spoke. "How many fingers am I holding up, son?"

"Four?"

"Four what?" Ray asked, over his shoulder.

Fraser gestured with his head to a space in front of him. "Dad's holding up four fingers, right?"

"Ri-ight," he said, heartily. "That's right, Benny."

"No, I'm not, Yank! It was two. Two!" He shook his hand in Ray's direction. "See!"

"Hold still, Dad! I can't tell with you waving your hand around," Fraser complained, squinting.

Bob Fraser stilled as he saw the meaningful look pass between Ray and Meg. "Never mind, son. It's not important. Pretend I'm not here."

"OK, Dad," he whispered, loud enough for them to hear. He looked pointedly away from his father, his gaze flicking around to everything but him.

Ray came back, and peered into his face, worriedly. Both eyes seemed to be tracking. He thought the pupils looked the same. "It's OK. You just rest, Benny. We're gonna get you to a doctor soon as we can." He returned to Thatcher.

"He's scaring me," she said, grimly.

"Me, too," Ray admitted. "Even scarier, Depardieu's goons are gonna be coming for us."

"We're armed and we have a hostage, now." She frowned at her choice of words. "I mean, a prisoner."

"Yeah." Was that enough, he thought, to get the three of them out of here? He glanced at Fraser, who looked back at them so trustingly. It had to be.

"Ray?"

"Yes, Benny?"

"Is ... is this ... heaven?"

Ray snorted. He couldn't help it.

Meg shot him a dirty look. "No, Ben," she said, kindly. "It's not heaven."

Ray, noting the sinister red glow cast on their faces by the burning flare, said, "It's not hell, either."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow with his left thumb. "Then, why do I hear angels singing?"

Meg and Ray exchanged worried looks. She spoke first. "You injured your head, Ben. Concussion can sometimes cause auditory hallucinations." She added, frowning, "Visual ones, too."

"Oh."

Just then, there was a sound from the other side of the room. A sound of metal scraping on stone, of long disused hinges being forced to rotate. Fraser looked over their shoulders as Meg and Ray whirled. He pointed with his left hand. "If this isn't heaven, why is there an angel over there?"

"I'm no angel, son," his father said, with an amused chuckle. "Far from it."

"Not you, Dad. Behind you."

The steel door was open. Bright white light poured out of the opening. Ray gaped at the sight of the angel standing in the doorframe, his long white robe flowing to the floor, a halo of white hair framing his head. The sound of a heavenly choir filled the room.

"Oh my God," Meg whispered. She really was dead. Antoine had shot her. It was _The Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge _for real.

Ray blinked hard, but the apparition was still there. He turned away, closing his eyes, pressing his hands to his ears, momentarily unable to process one more bizarre event in a long series of bizarre events.

Fraser swayed on the box, the light and music threatening to overwhelm him. Black spots crowded his vision. Over the roaring in his ears, he heard his father say, "You don't look so good, Benton." Then, as if from the bottom of a well, he heard "Yank! Hey, Yank!"

Ray opened his eyes. He thought he heard somebody shouting over the celestial choir. Then, he saw Fraser's eyelids flutter as he started to slump sideways. Ray lunged and caught him just before he hit the floor.

**NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This concludes The Great Northern Maple Syrup ****Adventure Part Two: Canada. The story continues (and comes to an end) in Part Three: Sanctuary. I hope you have enjoyed it so far. Please let me know how you like it.**


End file.
